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["I MUST BE QUITE HUNGRY!"]

His armor became heated; not that Zultar payed it any attention- he attributes it to his stomach acting up within the armor.
I must be quite hungry for this sudden heat wave. Zultar thought. I mean, there was absolutely NO way he was under the effects of some SPELL, that was impossible! The temperature of his armor rose and rose, but instead of growing wary, the heat only further instigated his madness. It's like how summer heat equates the boundless energy of some mammals- Zultar just got even more deranged. Perhaps poor Roxanne did not put into her calculations how contradictively reactive Zultar was, the usual mistake first-hand opponents made against the green orc stub. Any other fighter probably had the brains to figure out they were under some dangerous spell. I expect no less from Zultar-

"I MUST BE QUITE HUNGRY!" Zultar repeated, only this time his yells louder and his wails wider.

Suddenly Zultar stopped. Not out of breathe, no, not stamina and definitely not because of some suspiciously heating metal around him. He stared at Roxanne, some distance away with nothing but a straight line between to separate him and the fox. A straight line- course there was also a straight line between him and Kin; one Zultar would take full advantage off.

Zultar recalled Kin's passing remarks as he passed by him, a wild strike that couldn't possibly have hit Zultar's great and magnificent cunning. "FINE, I WILL ATTACK YOU, PUNY HALFING!"

Zultar's eyes lit up from rage, almost as if it was burning- they probably were. Whether out of stupidity or tactical advantage, Zultar prepared to fling his mighty falchion towards Roxanne (that's right, not Kin) having no prior experience with throwing weapons. I CAN THROW WEAPONS TOO! Zultar tried convincing himself he would hit. Hrrrrr!- a strong gale of wind built up as his extremely dense muscles winded up, upon release causing a pseudo whirlwind to appear due to his extraneous circular motions. He really, really wanted to throw that Falchion. "FACE THE WRATH OF THE MEAT GODS!" While Zultar clearly glared down Roxanne preparing to let go of his hands.

[spoiler=But instead of actually flinging his Falchion, at the last second-]http://www.youtube.com/v/1WGmeX6CLas&autoplay=1
[spoiler=Actions]
Zultar moves (if necessary) to be aligned with Roxanne in a line (he should be already unless I HAVE to follow the grid). Zultar then triggers his Flame of Rage neck slot (http://www.d20pfsrd.com/magic-items/wondrous-items/wondrous-items/e-g/flame-of-rage) and I choose to expend 3 rounds of rage to create a 60 foot beam dealing 5d6 damage against Roxanne.
Dmg: This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 5d6 : 2, 5, 3, 2, 1, total 13
[/spoiler][/spoiler]

["KIN!"]

Zultar figured Kin would be a very scary opponent to fight alone. Too many times, Zultar had seen him drop from heights that would break the bones of any other would-be rogue of similar skill. Kin was special, but so was Zultar, maybe a little more so in the head because of his zeal towards anything of meat, but maybe because Zultar actually thought, if but for a moment, properly in a fight, he might have a chance to best Kin-

I'LL CHARGE AT KIN AND EAT HIM!

But anyways, today is not that moment.

"KIN!" Zultar yelled, getting ready to butcher him like a cleaver through butter, butter that could even dodge. Course Zultar never actually struck him: instead, while yelling Kin's name in a threatening manner, Zultar mindlessly moved as far away from him as he could within an instant. Who cares what Kin does? Leave it to that strange shadow lover Lyolf. They can play magic tricks together, Zultar pictured them frolicking in the gardens of Galas'nor while they played and laughed and almost nonchalantly cut each other down with innocent smiles on their faces. He could imagine Lyolf quite easily, but Kin? No-

He was the devil.

Creepy Kin. Creepy Lyolf. Go make hand shadow's as I eat your face off.

And so with these judgmental remarks, Zultar ran in the complete opposite direction at full speed.

[spoiler]Note: I am not a DnD'r. Nor is Lance here right now. Correct my rainbows as needed.

I will want to run as far away from Kin as possible (because he's scary) and so I will move 40ft DIRECTLY right (towards Roxanne).
This should trigger an attack of opportunity from Kin, but Zultar really doesn't care! If there happens to be any other attacks of opportunity against me, Zultar will face tank it :| [/spoiler]


"I'LL GEEEEEET YOOUUU, KIIIINNNNnn!-" Zultar's screams echoed far from both Lyolf and Kin as Zultar charged towards Roxanne. Because, at the moment, Zultar wanted to rid the idiotic image of Kin looming on his mind. What better way than smacking some good ol foxes? Perfect sense.

["KIIIINNNN!!! THROW UP THAT MEAL!!"]

Lyolf's whispers replayed in Zultar's mind:

"Zultar, are you hungry? Have you a taste for some... meat? I'll have you know that Kin had a rather glorious meal before coming here - and it involved meat."

RAWGRAWHRGAWHGGH!!!, Zultar's mind explodes.

"KIIIINNNN!!! THROW UP THAT MEAL!!" In a mad rush, Zultar charges Kin-

"Lyolf...after all that talk of dueling, you instead attack a young girl. You'd dare to pay me no heed when I'm riGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!?"

or rather, Zultar charged the young girl next to him; Katrias. He probably figured it'd piss off Kin more than attacking him directly. Besides, Zultar had to admit the skill disparity between him and that devilish he-rogue.

MEAT. MEAT. MEAT. MEAT.

Or not.

[spoiler]Note: Rage is already active (free action)
Moving 40 ft to Katrias (move action)
Taking -2 penalty to attack to power attack for +6 damage (free action)
Then activating shard to roll a natural 20 (swift action)
Then attacking Katrias while flanking with Lord LYOLF-DONO!! (standard action)

Crit Confirm Roll: This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 1d20+15 : 16 + 15, total 31
Damage (Weapon): This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 2d4+12 : 3, 3 + 12, total 18
Damage (Crit): 20
Damage (Unholy): This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 2d6 : 6, 1, total 7
Damage (Elemental Assault Crystal): This dice roll has been tampered with!
Rolled 1d6 : 5, total 5

~Lance Approved.[/spoiler]

["KIIIIIIIINNNNNNNN! HOW DARE YOU PARTAKE IN MY MEAT!!!"]

Zultar gazed at the gauntlet in front of him. He had heard today was something special; surely it was with the audience mauling their drumsticks, men placing their bets on cups of biting wine and good camaraderie. Zultar paid no heed when a few audiences' eyes with fleeted glances slowly settled upon his stubby short stature. With the thoughts of supper in mind, nothing could distract him. Meals were not simple tasks of consuming calories, no-

If anything, they're sacred rituals to honor the meat that would later go into Zultar's stout belly.

Clearly then did dismay appear on the small orc's constipated face.

I just want my afternoon grub. Dumb Lyolf. But reward...could be MEAT.- Zultar drooled,

"KIIIIIIIINNNNNNNN! HOW DARE YOU PARTAKE IN MY MEAT!!!"

Zultar's deafening roars shook many-o-spectators. Why Kin's name was called was mostly anyone's guess, but Zultar knew deep down that he'd poke fun at him one day or another.

[spoiler]Intimidate: [blockquote]Rolled 1d20+10 : 14 + 10, total 24[/blockquote]
Initiative:[blockquote]Rolled 1d20+2 : 19 + 2, total 21[/blockquote]
Zultar also enters Rage :)[/spoiler]

 "Aivil leads Dan to her camp"

[spoiler]Mr. Narrator hasn't quite a clue why this Aivil would lead Dan to her camp, but Mr. Narrator chooses not to question it-
for a few seconds anyways.

I wonder why that happened, Mr. Narrator thought, looking terrifyingly curious as Mr. Narrator glanced at the above sentence.

Mr. Narrator looks up a post and sees something, a name? a person? a...thorn?

Thus the word 'Throndir' appeared in Mr. Narrator's mind. Other thoughts too streamed into Mr. Narrator's mind as if it was the natural law of the land-

Namely that this 'Throndir' mailed a certain someone to post if he didn't have quite time to intrigue his communal audience. Probably he anyways, who knew if he were actually she, or maybe something else altogether. The details were blurry.

Hmmmm, Mr. Narrator pressed Mr. Narrator palm towards Mr. Narrator's head, concentrated deep inside Mr. Narrator's self, prancing around with joy when Mr. Narrator randomly came up with a solution for this enigma.

Maybe this 'Throndir' is the reason why!

...

......

.........

No, that can't be right,

And so Mr. Narrator waits for the day someone's able to tell a story, a full post-



Why did I just say a full post?



I dunno.



Weirdo.


...
[/spoiler]

Anime Anime Animeeeee!

Heya Fox!

Anime anime animeeeeeee! Anime! Welcome to the forums! Anime!

And Baldur's Gate!

Horray! Anime! Go Girls Und Panzer!

And heya, friend irl. Glad to see you figured out how to post :P

Speaking of which, Lin, watch Girls Und Panzer right now!~

It's like, uh, loli's and tanks. Yup.

[spoiler]Aivil's Surv Roll
[blockquote]Rolled 3d6-2 : 3, 4, 1 - 2, total 6[/blockquote]
Kram's Surv Roll
[blockquote]Rolled 2d6+4 : 3, 4 + 4, total 11[/blockquote][/spoiler]

["Heeeey!"]

"Heeeey!" a voice broke her incoherent thoughts.

Wha,- who?-


"HEEEEEEEEEEY!"


Aivil's eyes were dumbstruck as she looked around, trying to discover where the voice was coming from. The voice wasn't familiar, at least not someone Aivil was acquainted with. A masculine voice.

"Hello! Am I glad to see someone else from the wreck. And fairing well, too!" the haggard stranger made his way in front of Aivil without her notice, too preoccupied, too prone to relapsing when-

"Sorry, let me introduce myself. I'm Daniel, I was a passenger aboard the St. Jude. What's your name? I have a camp up the way if you need help or shelter." The stranger, Daniel, introduced himself without much thought waiting for Aivil's response. Daniel brought his out to shake her hand, that much she understood.

Aivil...
Well she, um...
One sadness led to another and she
A stranger.
A survivor,
From St. Jude.
Someone had lived-
Took Daniel's hand and hugged him. And she cried, horribly so. She was a mess.

She fell down to her knees, almost bringing down the stranger in the process, but had managed to let go at the last possible second.

A survivor...

"I'm not alone..." she closed her eyes.

Comforting herself at the sounds of her own words-

"we...
we weren't abandoned..."

No.



No.



No.

Ẅ̵̡̧̡̛̛̹̺͉̱̩͍͇̜͍̯͕̺̱͍͍̼́̊̇̑̑͋̇̾̎̉͐̾̍͛͛̽͊̈́̔ͅͅe̸̡̛͕̹̙̦̟͙̣̖̭̰̲̝̱̱̫̫͔̱͙͗̽͌̀̒̏́̔̓͑̌̇̎̀̈́̈́̍͘͜͝ͅ ̷̨̣̮͍̫̘͔̯͔͍̮̥̩̟͎͎̣̠͕̦̼̎͊̓͋̂͂̇͒̋̒̈̓̋̇̊̔̂̂̈́̅͜͝w̶̨̨̡̛̛͉̲̫̮̪̜̥̳̬̣̲̜͇̻̫̬͆͐̈́̔̀̉́̽͐̏̅̇̃̄̈́̽͗̏͋̇͋ͅĕ̷̢̨͖͓̳̣͖̮̼͚̳̤͙͉̺̞̮̱̱͓̯͒̈́͊͌̈́̇̑̍̽̉̃͊͛͛́̒̚͝͠͠ͅr̴̡̢̝̯̳̞̘̞̫̞̫̤͉̼̳̳̝̙͈̰̂̈́̾̏̈́̑̔̔̐̏̊̇̽̌̈̂̀̀͛͘͝ͅͅę̶̢͖̟̮͖͓̞̩̭̦̞͙̞̲͎̞͇̩̲̊̏̎͌̓̏́̒̏͋̃̆͑̑̾̂̅̂̅̈́͋̿͘ͅn̶̡̢̩̤̙̪̙͇̩͙̲̞̖̺̩͎̞͚͌̈́̓͆̃͆̿͌̍̾̿̓̐͊͋͋̒͘͘͝͠ͅͅ'̶̛̛̝̝̗̳͖̟̪̮̝̙͙͚̖̤̠̼̲͉̲̭̌͂̒͛̏͂͌͛̅̓̄͊̅̆̂̀̒̕̚͘͜͝ͅţ̴̞̞̹̻͖̥̖̖͕̤̹̳̺̺̜̬͚̘̍̃̂̂͑͌͊̏̈́̔̋͒̈̈́̒̂̓̕̚͘͠ͅ,̴̧̧̨̢̛̲̩͇̟̲̟̙̫̟͍̮͓̦̱͉̹̗̗̲̎̈́̈͂̈́̈́̾̾̂͌̈́̓̄͊͋̓͋̃͘̚͝͝ ̸̧̛̟̻̳͖͇̝͇͍̹̩̪͔͙̙͔̙̞̰̎̋̔́̆̓̀̒̂́̀́̌̉͒́͋̾̚͘͜͝͠b̵̢̨̢̗̦͖̣̗̱̙̻̮̦̮̦̥̹̱̥͚̲̞͖͌̎̒̉́͐̿̒̃̊̊̿̈́̅́͋͒̏͆̌̕͠u̶̼̹͉̙͙̪͚̯͎̼͎̩̤͖̝̻̮̬̣͊̉̅͛̑̾͆͊̃͌̏̓̔̌̓͂̈̿͐̄̀͘͜t̴̢̛̛̬̜͙̝̬̰̫̦̘̠̟̫̫̯̼̰̬̳͔̫͚͑̒̾͋͊̂̃̄̊̅͒̅͌̔̉̆͊͘͠͝ ̷̨̡̡̯̺̪͈̮̙͙̖̞͙͔̠̹͈͔͈̣͖̓̌̊̍̈́͊̄́̾͑̌́̂̄̈̈́̍̕͘͠͠͝ͅw̵̛̠̣̣̥̝͖̫̹̝̠̘̖͖̬͙̱̱̱̰̾̓̅̎͗̑͌̒͑̅̈͐͑́̒̓́̚͝ͅe̵̢̨̢̨̢̧̡̗̥̦̳͚͎͉̻͕͚̯͖͚̰̖̅͒̀͆̉̒͒̏̈̒͆̿̃̾̊̔͋͘̚͠ ̸̧̢̧̛̜̹̲͎̼͖̞̣̝̩̠͔̮̫̘͇̠͈͉̂̈́̽̓̍̉̈́͋́̐́͒̇̏̕̕͘̚͘͠͝ċ̶̜͎͙͖̪̙̦̪̜͎̯̯̮̪͓̯̠̱̙͙̱̈́͂͂̃̄͆̈́̃̏̈́̈́̔̓̃͂̍̉̔̀̀̕͝o̵̙͓͈̞͇̺͙̯͍̺̠͈̗͕̭̜͉̳̠̣̬͖̳̿̽́̆̏̉̏̿̂͛̾̇̈́̃̽͆̇̔̕̕͘͝u̴̡͉̦̝̰̲̪̖̞͓͚̥̫̝̠̦̫͖͓̱̤̘̿̋̃̍̀̿̉̂͌͋̇̑̀̆̿̀̑͘̚͠͝l̴̨̨̧̘̺͙̱̦̦͙̹̟͎͓̮̗̦͖̪͒̉́̓̐̂̔͐͂̾̒̿͛̃̓̆͋̀̌̃̕͜͝ḑ̸̨̞͓͙̣̟̮͖̹̲̺̣̩̠͙͎͈̳̌̄̐̍͂̒̎͐̎͆̔̋̓͐̇͂̀̉͗̚̚͘͜͜͜ṅ̵̢̨̡̬̭̹̟̻̰̜̟̖̗̞͍̥̬̻̯̖̟̬͊̆͂͂̓̋̀̌̾̄́̃̐̄̈́̐̿̈́͂̀̚͘'̸̢̧̡̪̟͙̘̻̹̠̱̥͙̥͈̰̱̰̺̩̩̜͋̈́̊͊̍͗̉̏̉͗̌̐̾̃̓̐̀̌͑̕͝͝͝ṫ̵̨̢͖̗̼̮̭͎̮̖͍̫͍̗̠̬̝̻̳̮͊̑̑̀̿̂́́̈́̈͒͊͆̔͗̔̾̕͘̕͝...̶̡̢̨̛͔̟͈̦͙̞̣͓̭̜̯͈̯̫͓͚̘̳̼̑͋̓̆̀̇̈́̈̾̓̀͋̋͌̑͛͗̄̓̀͜͝
̵̨̨̼͚̲̝̞̖̣͉̣̳̱͕͎̺͚͍̮̞̠̫̈́͗͗͂͑͆̾̽́̈́͌̋̑͌̽͐̑̄̈́͛͠
̵̨̡̩͖̭̖̰͖̤̱͍̱̹̯̫̟̳̥̝͐̀̒̽̓͊̏̾͑̑̋̈̅̉́̆͂̉͘͘͠͝ͅͅT̵̢̮̭͕̲̝͖̭̞̼͈͓̹̖̙̪̰̦̯͉͉̭̼͂̽̽͑͗̓̏͂͆̽̍̋͑̒̎̅̂̐̔̂̕͝͠ḩ̵̧̛̭̦͓̺͕̞̠̖̜̳͍̝͕̣̹̹͉̘͌̉̓͑͛̄̃̿̀͆̿̒̑̀̄̏̕̚͝͝ͅͅȩ̵̛̛̛̣̩͍̞̘̱̼̫̲͍̩̦̼͎̞̭̜̯̟͈͆̓̅̆̅͌̾̉̂̈́̇̐̌̚͝͠͠r̶̢̥͓̖̲̻̤͔̺̬̺̝̫̮̥̭̹͇̬̔́̉̌̀̑̿̾̀̈́͒͋̄͆̄̒̀͐̍̚͘͝͝ͅe̴̢͎̼̩̫͉͎̣͕͎̗̭̫̮̫͓͖͓̙̗͖͂̊̔̊̈́͆̌̄̂́̿͛̎̃͂̑͗͘̕͠͝ͅ'̸̨̨̳̩͉̺̗̱͖̩̥̦̬̻̼̬̘̗͓͌̔̊̔̇͆̇̌̆͗̈́̂͂̇̒̽̏̋͘͜͜͠͠s̸̡̰̲̣͓̝̯̰͍͉̮̟̝̘̭̠̰̱̜͍͌̀̌̅̄͛̎͆̓̀̒́͛́̑͂͋̈́͋͂̈́̕̕͜ͅ ̵̨̡̨̨̯̮̖̠̻̫̞͓̹͍͚͙̱̟̩̹̀́͋̽̈́̃̓̈́̓͛̃́͐͗̊͂͒́̈́̚͘͜͝͠j̵̧̢̰̦̬̟̟̭̭͖̲͙̖̖͇͖̖͎͍̞̈̊̊̎̀̐͐̒́͂̾̇̄͛͊̀͂̓͘͜͜͝͠͝ͅu̸̡̢̟̻̬͎͇̭͙̱͇̣̮̖̣̘̬͕͙͈̜̇̌̍̍͛̋̄͑͑͛̓̌̏̽͘̕͘͝͝͝͝s̷̡̙̜͓̤͕̥̼͍̤͖͖̻̩͚̻͙̱̼̆̉̓̔̈̌͛̀̑̒̃͛̅̀̽͒̔̋̇͘͝͠ͅt̴̡̨̛̺̘̜̙̞̥̙̻̺͓̗̻͓̣͔͓̝̓͆͐̆̈̅̅̿̐̍̈͑͂̈͛̽̇̈̕͘͘͝ͅͅ ̷̡̛̗̲͈̬͙̤̬͍̻̗͎͔͖̩͍͓̠͈̥͋̇͗̈́͂̓͆̃͗̆̌̒͊̃́͒͂̈́̅͝͝ͅn̶͕͈̟̙͕͓̟̗̺̥͎̪̩̩̞̼͓̫̂̈́͊͛́͂́̒̿̇͊̎͑͛̃̈́̊͊́͘̚ͅͅo̷̹̖̜̺͓̻̺͍̲̼̞̩̮̠̣̪̤̟̺̘͈͒̃̽̇̓́̓͋̅̅̏͂̿̍́̑͋̚͜͜͝͠ ̵̨̢̞͉͎͓̳̙̰͍͚̺͈̣̼̬̗̗͚͈̰͕͑̀̃̊́̐̓́͆̄͂̓͆̆̆̿̚̕͜͝͝w̷̡̨̛̘̬̟̤̭̹͚̫̮̦͈͇͕̠͙͙̲̔́̏͗̿̀̐̀̒͑̎̾̓̋̚̕̕̚̚͜͜͝͠ą̴̨̤̳͍̯̞̙͇͖͇̰̞̬͍͈͉̭̟͍̰̽̔́͊͌̒̈͆͐̈́͐̅̄̈́͗̍͒̅̎̀̕ý̵̨̧̧̢̨̛̻̪̟̞̠͔̱͈̯̺̙͕̪̜͕̘̑͊̅̀̅́̾̍̊̿̎͆̂̉̎̂̚͝͝͝ͅͅ ̵̢̢̢̨̢͎͚̯̘̰̬̙͚͙̱̫̠̝͇̗̱̊͌̿͗̋͐͑̊͐̈͂́̆͑̎͆̌̈́̚͘͜͝͝ẗ̶̢̛͔͍̪̳̞͉̹͓͖̙̩̮̣͚̠̺̺̣̥͓́̔̈̍̀́̆͋͒̀͆̅̆͊̐̋̓̍̕͘͜͝͠ͅh̷̢̨̞̟̖͈̯̝̣̲̤͕̳̟̱̹͍̥̟̭̊̀̍̍͋̈́̆̃̌̂̏͗̎̈́͑̇̃̉̏̉̉̾͜͠ą̵̢̧̛̗͍͇̣͈̩̺̫̠͇͍̤̗̺̯̩̃̎̒́̀̌̀̒͌͑̇͂͒̋̉̾̀̄͘͝ͅṯ̶̨̱̤͙̠͙̞̫̗̼͙͉̯͚͉̦͈͎̪̦̰̽̄̅͐̅̌̓̓̌̓̾̓̆̒͌̾̂͑̃͝...̵̡͕̖̰͉̗̙͎̬͔̣͉͎̱̯̤͉͔̯͐̇͐͂̿̈́͛̀͌̎̀̆̐̋̂̅͛̈́͌́͜͜͝͝
̷̡̨̧̨̢̛̙͕̦̬̜̰̟̤̠̘̞͇̮̼̫̦͆̋́̈̓͒́̉̾̀́̆̎̍͊̒̔̚̚͜͠͝
̴̡̡̗̮͙͙̲̜͇͚͖͓̦̙̫͖̤͇̦̰̳̞͐͛̒̃̿̀͐́͋́͆͒͌̓̓̏͘̕͠͝N̶͍̩̲͖͇̺͍̳̘̫͔̞̖̼̝͉̼͙̺̤̳̦̆͊͂̈́̉̂̃͑͋͂̎̊̅́̃̾̈́̈͋͘͝ơ̷̧̨̳͚̟̯̱̫͍̦̖̩̱̩̫̲̬͇̯͉̖͉̎̒̎̈́̉̎̾͐̉̃̅͂̂̇͋̍̿̐̏͘͜͝ő̸̡̡̡̘̫̺̼̘͍̘̦̺̱͓̱̩̻̺͎̫̉̅̋̈́̑̈̈́̾̅̐̎̈́̇̈́͆̃̕͘͝͝o̸̧̨̡̨͔̮̺̜̣͉͙̜̞̙̻͙̻͙̲̦̯̲̟̽̋̓̆̓͐̆̔͆́̐̎̋̈̈́̀̄̀͒̚͠,̴̢̡̺̩̺͕͔̘̦͙̯̻̩͓̼̳̲̙̗͍̀̐̂̅̇͋͌̏̈́̒̍́͛̅͋̇̽͠͠͝͝͝ͅ ̵̡̢̺̞̹̘̪̣̼͇̮͈̼̙͔̝̻̖̜̭͑͛̀͂͗̀͊̂̉̐́̆́̽́͛̀̀́̚̚͝͝ͅS̴̨̢̬̱̘̖̰̬͎̼̲̖͚̱͈̬͕̘͚̠̾͌͊̎̂̈́̃͆̓̀̇͋̓̿̿̊̌̐͘͜͜͜͠Ţ̸̢̤͚̥̞̺̖̟̞̗̻̖̟̲̞̤̭̣̈́͊̿̐͋̆͑͑̃̿̈́́̀̑́̓̎̃̂͘͝͠ͅǪ̶̢̡͍̘̼̲͎͚͔̭̹͔̱̹͙̹̦͙̦̼̔̽̊̐͛̒̀̊̈́̑̂̈̓̍̒͑͘͝͝͠P̸̳͓͔̣͓̲̙̰̺͎̱̰̟̯͉͓̱͍̲͉̞͎̄͌̄̊͗̒̓̏̃̔̇̅̋͐̌̍̅̌̎́͋̕͝!̸̧̡̛̣̗̜̟̙̳̝̥͙̜̻̭̣̝͍͚̗̗̈́̈̈̓͂̾̍̓̐̀̍̒̀̈́̉͗͒͐̽͝ͅ
̸̧̡̛̩̲̹̻̻̤̮͇͍̩̖̬̗̯̹̖̱͔͖͉́̂̆͗̀͌̌̾͆̏̓̿̽͋̿̋͛͘͜͝͝
̶̢̢̞̰̥̦̱̮̝̣̟̫̬̙̺͍̙̥͓̍̀̓̽̍̽̑͆̌̄͒́̀̈̒̏̅́̚̚͜S̷̢̡͖̼̮̯̹̲̟̺̗̼̪͚̲͕͉͔̞͎̦̳̭̓͆͂͆̿́̒̉̉̈́̓͋̋͐͆̈́͒͛̋͘̚T̵̢̨͓͔̥̖̰̻̮̱̖̺͔͇̘̝̦̯̞̻̺̠̔̿͒͛̊̓̓͆͆̍̐̃͗̅͗̔́̄̕͠ͅƠ̵͔̯̤̟̙̠̙͈͕̬̞͎̜͖̣͉̻̼̬̝̫̟̝͒͂́̃̂̋̉̇͆̈́̍̍̄͌̍̓̇͘͠͝P̸̨̡̧̛̼͓̝̹̘̹͎͎̜̗̖̯̹̥̦̤͕͓͉̈́́̏͆̓̅̓̐͌̍̎̽̆̔̿͛̒̇͘̚͝͠ͅ!̸̢͈̖͔̺͚̹̭̖̙͔̭̠̰͇͔̝̬̜̰̞͕̀̾̊͋̉̈́͛̈͛̇̂͆͐̓̆̍͑̐̕͘̚͠
̸̡̨̢̢̢̜͙̝̞̮̭̭̠̠̤̠̠̰̪̺͓͚͐̑̉̊̀̋̄͐̅̂̏͊͌́͌̌̑̾͘̚͝͝ͅ
̷̡̨̨̛̺̦̖̫̹̫̼̦̞̗͚̠̣͙̳͉̗̣̹̣̂̓̎̉̀͂̏̀̈́͛̂̄̈́̇͗̌̄̐̌͝͝Ẅ̵̡͔̲̱͓̮͉̯̬̺̝̩̫̱̬̞̟̝͍̥́̂̆͛̾̔̇͛́̈́̓͛̋͐̎̋̾͊̈́́̅͠͝ͅȩ̵̧̨̢͈̙̣̰̺͚̠̺̟̳̯̱͙̘͚̤͗͛̐̅̆̿̋͂͊̀̍̔̽̌̃́̔̇͘͘͝͠ͅ ̶̡̹̻̥͇͈̲̭̲̪̯̥̗̳̦̞͉͈͍̗̪͛̈́̿̈́̋͆͂̓̂̽̀̍̔̓͐̓͑̚̕̕w̸̛̮̖͖̯͎̳̗̫̬̰̦͕̞̬̹͎̰̥̞͖̬̥̓́́̊͒̌͐̃͆̔̍͌͑͌̄̃͘͠͝͝ͅę̸̧̹̖͖̞̦̝͓̦̪͈̲̪͈̯̙̟͖͔̅̏̉̅̋̔̈́̊͐̽́̊̿̈͆̐́̚̕̚͜͝r̷̡̧̙̤̼̬̭͈͔̲̜̯̯̖̺̺̝̺̯̾͂̋̄͋͋̎͛͂̇̉͊̀͛̀̂̿̓͠͝͝ͅȩ̷̛͚͍͓̮͚̙͍̦̭̣̳̖̥͉̤̥̺̭̲̹͆͂̄̌͒̋̔̿͌̆́̏̃̐͊͂̈̌̐͘͝͝n̷̨̨̧̨̛̞͕̦̭̖͎̟͚̱̞̼̬͕̹̳̭͍̓͂̊́̄̔͗̄͛̈́̈̏̃̒̇͆̔̓͝ͅ'̷̢̤͓͙̝̬͓͉̯̫̜͍͈͔͖̣̖̭̻͎̞̄̈́͆̎̓̽̾̈́̎͂̅͊͛̃͗͂̈͘̕͜͝͝͠t̷͕̜̰̞̗̙̺̳͍͔̗̻̹͚̗̦͓̬͖̯̙̃̈̒͆̇͒́̓̐͐̓̐́̈́̍̊̌̚͠͝ͅ.̵̨̛̮̻͔͓̬͔̲̫̘͎͉̘̹̩̮͖̫̬̫̏̿̄̽̂͑̓͑̔̒̓̃̍̃̀̅̂̚̚̕͜͜͝͝ͅ.̸̧͓͔͚̼̬̙̦̺̳̖̝̝̮̖̪̩͇̣̘̅̏̍̊͌́̈́̉̑͋̏̄̋̒̇̃̔̿̈̊̚͝.̵̡̡̭̫̳̠̼͎̹̯̳͕̞͉̳̱̹̘̻̺͑͒͒̌́́͐̀̃͆́̋̀́̌̎̊͐̕͝͝͠͠
̴̛͈͈̭͔̠̦̟͈̻̟̜̖̠̗̤̫̫̬̹̂̏͂͗̄̎̓̆̊̂͐̐̓̂̃͗́̾̿͐͊̀͜

















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[T-there has to be people looking for us. W-Wouldn't they search for survivors? Isn't that the right thing to do? The rescue team wouldn't just abandon us. Would they? Were not dead, and were still alive, Vinny's doing work and Kram's recovering and I think were finding plenty of supplies to live off of. We could survive for a long time. We could probably live here for years off the debris the ship's giving, a whole crew's worth for us to scavenge. If that turns up we could always plant something, water it daily, and grow food on our own farm right? But then we'd have to till the land and tend to it everyday. I'm sure Vinny and Kram would be up for the task. If that doesn't work, we might just starve to death. To be honest I don't see us being saved by anyone else other than someone out there who just happens upon us. Getting out through the ocean back to society is out of the question considering the only boat material I could see is wood from the tropical trees, and worst, I don't think we have an axe or anything to cut it with. The debris from the ship is sadly too lackluster for us to do anything with it, maybe with all the debris we could mash up something together, but that would be demanding much more effort for a slightly better material to work with, it's not viable, no realistic, unrealistic. Ahh, I wanna go home right now, what am I even doing here? I just want to sleep in my warm, comfy bed around my homely walls and ceilings, I want to eat not for survival but for my own pleasure, I want to eat a proper meal with my grandparents, Why'd the boat have to named St. Jude anyways? It's because the boat name sounds so much like a certain traitor in a book that it was bound to sink. The only way for a possible rescue is if a rescue team keeps searching the waters around here aimlessly until they arrive here, that's the only sensible thing that could happen, but what if this place isn't known, this island, or worst these waters? What if no one knows where we are? Perhaps that's why it might be taking any rescue boats awhile to get here, right? No, we shouldn't be too far from where the cruise sank, so they should easily be able to find us. Yeah, that's right, there's no way that were actually lost because the explorers and adventurers who first came to these places long ago have already done their job mapping it. There must be thousands of copies of those maps, and it won't be long until someone finds it and makes their way here. I̚'͝m̔ ̂s̛u͗r̈́e̎ ͠ît̃'̎s̈ ̈́j̓u̾s̏t̆ ̎m̂ŷ ͆i̓m̉p͝ãt͌i͑ĕn̎c̿e͆,̏ ̀b̉űt͋ ̚I͑ ̀j͂ús̓t͑ ̾ĉa͊n̕'̀t̏ ̕g͠e̒t͝ ̏i͆t̿ ̂o̒ǔt͠ ̍o̐f̔ ́m̓y̐ ̐m̀i̕n̏d̂.̍ ̃Ǹò,̓ ̊n̈ŏ,̚ ̅t͂h̔e̓y̏'̅l̄l̽ ̍s̎ưr̆ë́l͋y̚ ͆c̚o͘m͠e̒,̛ ͝ẗh͒e͗y͌ ̔h̄a̅v̄e͝ ̂t̿ỏ,̓ ͗h̕ȁl̈f́ ̓t̾ḧ́e̓ ̈́w͆o̾r̐l̛d͌'͗ś'͘ ͝p̿r͐o̓b̊ăb͛ĺy̐ ̈s͝e͘e̊i̿n̾g̔ ͌t̂h̿i͑s̏ ͂a̕s̈ ͂ä́ ̍t̉ȑa̽g͑e̛d̄y̓ ̐s̋e͝e̓ȉn̏g͘ ̏a͛s͂ ̆a̚ ͛c̑r̛u̒i͐s̓ē ̇w̔i̾t͒h͝ ̓s͂o̕ ̈m̕ưc̅h͘ ́p̄e͋o̊p͗l̂e̎ ̾s̛a̋n̅ḱ,͝ ̐s͐ò ̾ťh͐ẽr̛e͠ ̊ĥa̛s͌ ͑t͠o̒ ̚b͊e͆ ̎ȧn̑ ͑úp̈́r͐o̅ãr͊ ͛g̏o̅i͒n͊g̚.̒ ͘A̐l̂l͠ ̒t̉h́o̊s͌e̔ ͠l͒o͌s͠t́ ͝ìn̽ ͂t̃h͂ẻ ̿s͗èa͊,͊ ̆w̒h̒e̓r͊e͘ ̅c̚o͗űl͂d͋ ̉t̀h͝ë́ÿ́ ̍b̂e̊?͘ ̒B̽e͝c̈́a̎u̿s̐e̛ ̽e͒v̉e͐r̒y͛ö́n͊ě ̀c̐än̈́'͂t̀ ͛h̏a̅v̅e͝ ̌d͝i͌e̽d͝,̃ ̚t̾ḣa̕t̃ ̓ẁö́u̇l̃d͛ ̿b̌e̽ ̃i̎m̐p̓ős̎s͛i͝b͝l̐e͊ ̾r̔i̓g̿h̐t͝?͝ ̎I̎'͒m̓ ̂s̍ùr̀e͘ ̊e̎v̾e̓r͠y̏ón͠e͠ ̓w͝ās̄ ͂åb̂l̈e̓ ̈́t̀ŏ ̃g̅èt̚ ̽òǘt͝ ̏ǐn̋ ̀t̎h̊e̓ ̿p̋án͘i͑c̆,͊ ̆a̿f͊t̔ë́r̿ ͗a͑l̾l̐,̋ ̕b̀ȍa̕t͘s̔ ̕h͆àv̕e͋ ̈s̏àf͛ë́t̄y̑ ̛m͑ȅåśu͠r̄ë́s̏ ̍f͝õr͆ ͊ä́ ̅r͛e̽ás͑ŏn̔,̛ ̈́r̋i̚g͛h̚ẗ́?͆ ͒N̅ơ,̊ ͋d̎o͐n̔'͌t̒ ͠t̾e̾l͘l̓ ͒m̒ě.͊.̕.̚t̿ḧe̅ ̒s̿ǔr͝v͋i͝v͗o͘r̉s̄,͛ ̈́t̆h̚e͆ ̍p̚a̽s̒s̓e̚ńg͑ėr̓s̃,̈́ ́t͗h͋e͊ȳ ͂m̋u̚s͑t̍'̂v̌e̊ ͊m̔ǎd̛e͗ ̿ȉt̀ ̎o͠n̽ ̒s̍h̆o̅ȑe̋ ́b́ÿ́ ̓ěv̛ēn͌t͛u͐ál̐l̈́y͑ ̀d̅r̾ȉf̎t̊i͗n̚g̍ ̐t̽o̾ ̊t̃ḧ́e͐ ̚i̐s̈l̆a̚n͆d͝,̽ ̒s͆o̽ ͛e̽v̌e̛řy͑o̕n̓ẽ'͠s̍ ̆a̋l̀i̚v͛ē,͗ ͝r̎ĭg̿h̋t͝?̃ ̈R͂i͊g̏h̊ẗ́!͝?̒ ͂T́h̎ȃt̐ ̓ḣä́s͌ ̈́t͝ǒ ̌b̀e̎ ̓r͊i͂g͘h͂t̕!̃ ̇I̅ ͝ċa͑n͆'͝ẗ́ ̍b̅ĕ ̃ẁr̅o̿n̓g̚,̈́ ̇t̀h̃èy̒'́r̈e̔ ̊a̎l̆l͝ ́a̔l̓ĩv̏ë́ ̋ãǹd̍ ̂ít͂'̿s̐ ͛j̅u̎s̍t̋ ͑m̄y̏ ̕i̐m̓a͂g͊ǐn̓àẗḯo͝n̿ ̅t̋h̔a̽t̏ ̓e͒v̚e̍r͆y͘ǒn̒e̕ ͌d́i̿ěd́!͊ ͐N͝ö ͂o͝n͊é ͌d͝i̍e̍d̊!͘ ́Ĩ ͋w̕ĩs͂h̄ ̕s̎ȏm̌ë́o͝n̏ȅ ̃ẁo̕úl̑d̀ ́a̚n̋šẃe̿r͘ ̏m̈è,̆ ̍s̛o͝m̏ẻơn̈e̅ ͐j̽u̓s͐t̽!͋-͂ ́w͑áìt̊,͛ ̎ẃḧ́ȁt̓ ͑i̋f̈́ ̉t͐h̑e̛y͐ ͑s̓ä́ẅ́ ̎a̍l̈l͒ ͒t̾h̕e̋ ̒d̔-̔d̈́ēa͋d̑ ̛b̿-́b́u̔-͘b͋o̊d̽i̊e͛s͗ ͂a͐r̀o͌ùn̆d͑ ̃t͐h̛ȅ ̈s̛h̒íp̎ ͝a͝n̽d̉ ͆a͐s͌s̈ùm̅ěd̽ ̊ål͐l͑ ̉o̍f̅ ̒u͛s̄ ̈d̅-́d͐īe̒d̿!̍?̽ I̷ ̷c̶o̷u̷l̶d̴ ̷s̷e̷e̴ ̵h̴o̴w̸ ̸s̵o̴m̷e̴o̶n̸e̶ ̵m̴i̵g̷h̸t̴ ̶m̵̧̪̘̗̗͎̮͎̥̹͎͜a̵̧̡͔͎͓̻̞͚̦͉̲̱k̸̡̢̼̝̬͍̘̯̭̙̮͜e̵̦͈̯̩̝̥͕̖̭͚͜͜ ̸̧̯̫̫̭̰̬̫̫͓̹̙t̸̘̗͍̺̤̲͎̪̺̘̖̹h̶̨̨̰̼̮͎̹̦̱̤͇ͅa̸̢̹̳̹̪̩͉̯̰̜̟ͅt̶̜̟̹͍͓̲̹̟̤̦̣̘ ̸̧̢̠͓̟̣̟̗͈̞̺̪ą̵̻̺̰̹̯̼̹͍͍ͅͅş̸̟̭̭͖͈̬͇̳͕̮̘s̶͍̠̗͕̟̲͍͉̙̘͉͜ṳ̸̢̢͔̪̞̮̭̰̩̟̻m̷̢͙͙̹̺̫͈̼͖̗̻͜p̵̨̪̬̫͉̥̗̠̭̫̥͎ț̸̝͖͓͈̣͕̺̳͖̬ͅi̴̭̬͚̱̖͔͍̞̞͔̻ͅo̷̡̗̲̥͉̲̫̣̟̺̱͔n̶̰̼̟͕͙̱̘͎̱̝̗ͅ ̷a̵f̷t̷e̶r̴ ̶s̶e̴e̵i̷n̴g̵ ̶a̷l̸l̵ ̵t̷h̶e̸ ̴b̴-̷b̵l̸o̵o̴d̸ ̷i̴n̵ ̴t̷h̵e̷ ̴w̷a̶t̷e̶r̶s̵ ̷b̷u̶t̴-̸ ̷n̶o̵ ̷t̴h̶a̸t̴ ̶m̶e̴a̴n̷s̵ ̸t̵h̵a̸t̴ ̶p̵e̷o̴p̷l̷e̸ ̴d̶i̸e̴d̴,̵ ̴t̶h̶e̶y̸ ̷m̷u̴s̶t̵'̸v̴e̸ ̸b̵e̵e̵n̸ ̷i̵n̷j̶u̸r̷e̸d̵,̸ ̴j̶u̴s̴t̷ ̷m̷i̵n̸o̶r̸ ̴i̴n̶j̴u̴r̷i̶e̸s̸.̸ ̵I̸n̷j̴u̶r̵i̵e̸s̸ ̵f̸r̷o̸m̷ ̴s̵o̵ ̷m̶u̷c̶h̴ ̶p̶e̸o̴p̷l̶e̴ ̷t̵h̵a̵t̸ ̴t̶h̷e̶r̶e̶ ̶w̸a̴s̸ ̷e̴n̵o̶u̷g̶h̶ ̵b̷-̵b̶l̸o̵o̷d̴ ̵t̴o̶ ̸m̴a̸k̵e̶ ̸t̶h̴e̸ ̷w̸a̸t̵e̴r̷ ̸a̶̶̶̹͈ ̴̴̴̨̦l̵̶̵̡̖i̶̶̸̩̝t̷̸̴̜͍ţ̵̸̵̥l̷̵̴̫̺ȩ̶̶̵̲ ̷̴̸̭̖r̵̷̷͖̳-̷̴̶̨͇r̷̴̵̲̭e̴̷̴̱̪d̴̴̴̟̦,̶̶̸̤͉ ̶̸̸̧̘ỵ̴̶̶̨ȩ̵̴̴̮a̶̸̷̩͚ḥ̴̷̴͇ ̵̸̴̗͜i̴̴̴̜͎t̵̷̸͕̯ ̵̸̷͍̫m̶̵̷̲͍ṳ̶̶̶͎s̷̵̴̻͚t̶̵̴̨̫ ̶̷̷̱̯b̶̴̵̝̯e̶̴̷̗ͅ ̸̵̴͉̩t̵̸̸̜͕h̷̸̵̻̬a̷̴̶͕̦t̷̵̶̝̣!̷̴̴̟̱ ̴̴̴̹͕Ŗ̷̶̵̢-̷̴̷̯͔Ṟ̴̸̴ͅI̸̶̴̜̳G̸̷̸͓̲ẖ̸̴̸̬ț̵̴̸͓!̶̸̵͈̤?̷̷̸͚ͅ ̶C̶̴̵̼͇͗̊a̷̵̷̱̅͜͝l̶̶̵͖̳͛͋m̸̶̴̙̘͗̂ ̷̴̷͚̠̓̐d̶̷̶̠̠̑͒ȯ̷̷̷̖͝ͅw̴̵̵͔̟̓̈́ṅ̸̵̵̙̤̚ ̴̶̷̧̙̓͆c̷̷̸̭̠̈́̀ḁ̶̸̵͔̋̕ľ̴̸̷̢̻̇m̴̵̷̩̭̎̔ ̶̷̴̱̎̀͜D̷̵̴͖̭͐͘o̷̶̸̢̩̽̚W̸̴̴̜͓̓̋n̸̴̷̘͈͗̚ ̴̴̷͚̣̽̿Ç̷̸̶̛̦͂A̴̴̸͔͈̿͠Ḻ̸̴̶̩̌̀M̶̷̵̢̼͂̀ ̷̴̷̢͈̀̂D̸̴̴̞̹̉͝A̴̷̵̱̹̎͠W̷̷̷̰͍̉͛n̸̸̵̹͍̎͝-̵̷̴̦͕̇̀,̸̵̸̡͉̉̅ ̸̸̵̨̝͒͝b̷̷̷͈̤̽͒r̵̶̵͖̦̈́̐ë̸̵̷̡̨͝ȁ̶̸̶̬̘͝t̵̶̶̥̤̾̎h̷̸̷̰̗̀̂ē̷̴̴͇͇͝ ̶̷̵̩̦̈̕ḇ̷̶̵̘͛͘r̶̵̶̢̤̾̀ě̷̴̸̳̏ͅą̴̵̴̩̾́t̴̵̸̨̹̂̋h̵̵̸͕̜̉͒ ̴̵̶̣̙̈͠b̸̵̶̜̺͑͑R̷̶̸̗̱̒̒E̵̵̷̩̻̿̈́a̵̴̵͖͈̒͠T̴̷̸͙̘̈́̔h̵̷̴̟̤́̈ ̸̴̸̙̪͆̎E̶̶̴̖̝͒̆T̵̴̷̟͖͛̔H̷̷̸̨̼͋̍E̴̷̷̺̱̎̋r̶̷̴͙͖̂̃b̷̴̷̨̩̽̕h̸̴̷͓͎͂̉ ̸̶̶̲̯̑͝A̵̸̶̜̦͌͋Ḥ̷̶̸̗̈́͝r̸̶̴̗̩͗̄h̷̵̷͇̬̑̔,̵̴̵͇̭͌̏ ̸̴̸̞̻̎̇é̷̵̸̪͚̽v̸̶̸̧̦̽̃e̵̴̷̡̯̊͝r̸̴̷̩̣̂̋ý̸̴̵̢̘̃o̶̴̷̬̪̕͠n̵̵̸̡͖̏̎ḙ̸̴̸͍̈́͝ṯ̷̶̷̲̑̇h̸̸̴͈̦̀́i̸̵̶̠̭͊̎ņ̶̶̵̡̆͘g̴̴̷͕͓͌͝s̷̴̸̖̔́͜ ̴̴̷̙̐̃ͅg̷̶̷̝̫̾̉>̴̴̷̯̰̿̐ŏ̷̶̸͔͠ͅn̸̶̸͙̗̎̑n̶̸̵̪̜̔̚a̶̴̷̞͇͐͘ ̴̶̴̫̱̓̋b̵̶̵̡̠͌͠e̴̷̶̤͎͋̿ ̶̵̷̡̞́̿f̸̷̶̜̺͂̚ì̶̶̶͔̺̍n̵̷̷̢̳̿̊e̶̴̴͚̯̓̎ ̴̵̵̧̖͊̑f̵̶̸̨̬̀̔i̸̷̴͕̔́͜n̷̵̶̲̗͊́ë̴̴̴̗́̎ͅ ̷̵̷͓͕̓̌F̵̸̷̮͓̔͊i̸̴̴͖̠̓͝n̴̴̸̜̜͛̒ẹ̵̵̷̢͋̅,̶̷̴̣͔͂̓ ̷̶̴̫̮̽͌h̴̷̸̖͇̆̇-̵̷̵̧̭̑͗H̶̷̶͍͉̀͒ĕ̷̴̸̢͉̚l̵̵̷͉̳̇̚p̴̷̴̳̣̒̐S̸̶̸̬̩̔̑ ̶̵̵͕̗͐̓g̵̶̶̨̡̀̉o̷̵̶̧͚̓̚i̴̶̸̺͕̔̃ṅ̷̸̷̫͖̔g̵̵̶͍͓̊̂ ̶̴̵̜͙̽͠t̷̴̷̙̟̓͠ọ̴̶̶͌́͜ ̷̴̸̺͍͗͠c̷̵̶̫̮̀̇C̶̵̷̠̻͂̀k̴̷̵͖̖̀̆o̸̶̸̱̩̾̅m̶̸̷̬̣̄̑e̷̵̵̩͍͑͛ ̷̷̵̤͉͛̎<̶̸̵͔̪̉͌f̸̴̶̝̼̂̍o̵̸̸̠͈͆̃u̴̶̵͔͙͋͝r̶̶̴̬͈̔̐ ̸̴̴̟̺̋̆ś̷̴̴͇͙̈́u̸̵̷̩̲͒̂ȑ̷̷̴̫͙͝ḛ̴̷̶̭̈́͂,̴̴̷̱̤͋́ ̸̴̵̠̠̍̒ỵ̶̷̶̢͑͝e̴̵̵̥̻͌̋a̷̶̵̞̙̔́h̴̵̸̬̖̽͝,̴̷̷͍̙͗́ ̷̸̶̜̹͛̈́ï̵̷̵̢̪̄t̶̷̴̛͎̪̔'̸̸̵͈̲̇̇s̶̷̵̡͔͋͋ ̸̶̴̦̍̎ͅṉ̷̴̶̟̂̈ơ̸̸̷̹̼̕t̴̴̷͚̙̽͆ ̶̷̵̹͋͜͝l̴̷̸̩͖̉̑i̵̶̴̤̮͐͝k̵̵̶̡̞̆̈́e̸̶̶͓̎̅͜ ̴̴̶͈̥̀̏w̸̶̴̭̻͗̇e̵̸̵͍̳̐̊r̵̵̷̗͖̋̈́ę̶̴̵̡̆̓ ̵̶̵̦̞̿̕a̵̵̷̻̩͑̆ļ̸̸̶͔͋͛l̷̴̵͇̥͂̈́ ̷̴̴̭̼̆͌g̵̴̶̭̫̔͝ǫ̷̸̵̹͑͛i̸̶̴̹͓͆͒ń̶̵̵̖̹̓g̶̴̴̯̩̿͌ ̸̶̷̬̗͆͘t̸̷̷̯̳͌̇o̴̷̶̹͕͒͝ ̴̶̸̨̹̿̒ḃ̷̵̷̲̝̚e̸̵̸̲̖͛̕ ̷̸̷̧̤̊͊ń̷̵̸͓͕͐-̸̴̴̡͖̐̿n̴̸̸̳̗̉͌e̵̷̶̺̠͛̍x̴̷̴̲̺͒̍t̴̴̵̨̺̕͘ ̸̶̶̙̝̓̀ḋ̶̶̶̘̙̆ḭ̴̸̴̪͐̒s̷̷̸̳̟̈́͒a̷̸̸̦̭͒͒s̷̸̵̰̖̍͆ṱ̸̸̵̬̅̓é̶̴̶̩̞͝r̴̵̸̹̣̾̑ ̸̴̶̥͚̾͘ǫ̴̵̸̮͆͝n̷̷̸̢̫̋̔ ̵̸̵͎̙̅̂T̴̶̶̲̰͛͠V̵̵̸͙̘̽͝ ̵̸̸̩̘́̍ó̸̵̶̡̙̓ȑ̶̵̷̮̰̊ ̴̷̷̞́̈͜â̴̶̶͚̤͝n̷̸̷͔̤͛̀y̸̸̴̩̑͜͝t̵̴̶̳̦̋͠h̶̸̵͖̱̊̂i̵̵̷̥͈̽͗n̸̴̴̰̦̄͌g̵̷̵̫̖̃̑,̵̵̷̛̰̊͜ ̸̵̸͈̦͛̀e̶̴̷̢̞̊̋v̸̷̸̬̳̽͂ę̶̸̴̯̏̔n̷̶̷̜̞̑̕ ̷̴̸̟͈͑̕ţ̷̸̷̣̑́h̷̴̴̼̜̒̆ò̵̸̶̥̞͛ṵ̸̴̴̤͆̐g̵̸̶͕̞̓̀h̶̴̴̻̰̅̅ ̶̴̸̡̬̿̔w̷̴̴̡̘͐̚è̷̶̶̳͎̒ ̴̸̸͖̉͝ͅk̷̸̸̝̝̇̚i̴̵̶̩̤̅̂n̸̵̴͇̉͗ͅḏ̸̷̷̭̀͝å̸̶̵͓̺̅ ̶̸̷͚͆͝ͅa̷̵̷̮̜͋̈r̴̵̵͇͗̉ͅḛ̶̵̷͔̎̏,̴̷̵̢̥͐͗ ̷̴̴̹́̀͜w̷̴̷̲̖̌͝ȩ̸̷̵̖͒̀r̵̸̴̘̜̀̎e̷̴̴͉͙͂̅ ̵̵̵͇̹̂̈n̶̴̶͎̝̄̌ŏ̸̷̶̢̰̚t̶̶̶̳͖̋͋ ̴̵̸̗̘̿͗ǹ̶̵̵̗̳̆ǒ̴̴̷̲̼̎t̸̷̵̡͉͊̽,̵̸̸̖̞̐̃ ̷̶̴̗̪̊͌å̵̴̶̡̨̊-̶̴̴͖̠͑̕a̴̵̸̤̤̅̆r̸̸̵̡̩̔͒e̴̴̸̝̗͑̈́-̴̵̵̱̭̄͑,̴̶̸̻͖̒̿ ̴̸̶͚̮̄͘ŵ̴̷̶̧͇͐ē̵̶̵͇͍̈?̴̷̵̢̲̽̚ ̷̴̶̬̱̃̑D̶̵̶̡̳͘̚i̷̷̴̊̓͜ͅd̶̷̴̼̺̆͘n̷̸̵͖̣̂́'̵̷̵̳͚̌͠t̵̵̸̩̳̍͝ ̵̵̵̞̤̓̚I̶̴̴̢̛̥͘ ̷̴̴̰̓̊ͅạ̴̷̷̮̏͋l̴̶̵͎̫̏̓r̶̸̴̤̘̎͝e̸̸̸͉͚̓͠a̵̶̴͖̒̊ͅd̴̸̶͍͎̐̃y̴̶̷̲͖͐̒ ̷̴̴͇͈̏̎t̴̷̸̡̫̀͘h̷̴̶̟̖̿̇ḭ̶̴̵̝͑̎n̴̵̶̲̥̆͑ḵ̵̴̷̃͘ͅ ̴̴̴̦͉͐͋ȍ̴̴̶̡̫͗f̵̶̴̘̪̉͒ ̶̶̸̣̄͜͝t̸̶̴͉͇̓͋h̵̸̷͎̤͌̊a̶̶̶̙͇͆̽ť̶̸̵͎̪́?̷̴̴̡̱̓͊ ̷̷̸͎̙̾̕Ṉ̶̵̷̟̈́̚Ỏ̵̶̵̥͓̕n̸̶̷̺̹̈̒O̶̶̸͕̖̽͒O̴̷̷̪͂̋ͅo̶̶̵͈͙͝͝ổ̵̷̸̜̣n̷̸̶̻̳͋̚o̸̵̴̢̹̊̚o̵̴̸͇̥̓̚n̵̸̶͓̜͊́o̴̴̸̥̱͂͆ó̶̵̷̘͉͝n̸̷̴̹̝̒̎ô̴̸̵̤̣͠n̷̵̷͚̜͋̋o̷̴̷̩̔̕ͅ ̷̵̶̪̱̈̂Ṉ̸̵̶̡̓̑Ȍ̴̵̵̪̣̂Ņ̶̴̷͈͂͊Ǫ̸̵̴̩̏̔O̷̴̷̟͔̾͊O̷̷̸̻̖̾̈́,̶̴̴̱͔̑͐ ̶̸̴̙̙́̀T̴̶̴͔̪͆̿h̵̴̵̼̙̔̔ỵ̷̷̷̺̇̾e̴̴̶̹̫͑͌ ̸̷̶̩̗̄̏â̴̵̵̟̻̈́l̵̶̴̪̹̀̈́r̷̵̷̺̗̈̉ȇ̵̸̴͖̟͋ ̸̷̴͖͔̈́̒d̴̸̶̝̓̈́͜e̵̷̷̙͉͋̊a̴̷̴̲̼͆̈́d̷̴̸̗̮̊͝!̵̴̴̹̭̿̑ ̴̶̷͔͔̄̽T̶̴̵̜̺͌́h̸̷̶̲̿̒ͅe̶̷̴͙̠͒͂y̵̴̵̝͌́͜ ̵̵̶̯̜͒͝m̸̷̴̢͇̽͝ṷ̵̷̵̡͌͛s̶̸̷̬͆̏͜t̴̷̷̤̓̌͜'̴̸̸̱͖́̀v̴̸̴̱̼̀̔ẻ̸̵̸̯̩͒!̷̶̸̪͖̍̈́ ̴̷̷͔͈͂́S̸̸̴̺͚͒͝ǫ̴̸̸͚̅̎m̴̵̵͕͊̾͜ẻ̶̸̸͓͖̐ ̴̸̵̹͛̇ͅį̷̴̴̜̎͑f̶̴̸̼͚̒̚ ̵̸̶̥̫̆͝n̷̴̴̜̪̔̎o̵̶̷͎͔̓͝t̷̵̷̩̲͌̔ ̷̶̶͔̬̓̈ą̶̴̵̗͛̌l̶̴̶͉͔̂̓l̶̶̴̛̮̯̔ ̸̵̵̟̼̀̄o̶̸̴͖͖̐̇f̴̶̷̪͇̅͝ ̸̶̷͈̳͋̕t̷̸̶͙̠̀̚h̴̵̷̘̻̀͠ḙ̷̶̴̅͘ͅm̴̴̴̯̥̍̔ ̶̷̴̭̩͌͋s̸̵̴̟̑͘͜h̶̴̵͚͚͌̉ó̴̵̵̖̩̍ù̷̷̶̼͔͊l̴̷̷̥͓͌͘d̶̶̷̘͒̚͜ ̸̶̷̨͖̾̽h̴̵̸͓̟͠͠a̸̶̵͚͇̐̚v̵̴̸̢̼͌̈ě̴̸̵̱͕̌ ̷̸̴̻̪̀͌ḋ̸̶̴̡̙͗i̶̸̷̗͔̾͗e̵̶̷͍̮̚͝d̴̸̸̖̦̓̓,̸̷̸̣͚͑̑ ̵̴̷̹̝̔͑i̸̴̷̘̯͌͝t̴̶̷̘̩̋̾'̶̷̴̬̩̒̚s̷̶̴̯͈̊̐ ̸̷̷̛̫̬̇b̷̵̴̜̱͑͛é̷̷̵̹̲̓ẽ̴̸̷͍̤̆n̵̷̷̲̆̀͜ ̵̸̷̞̣̋̿ẗ̵̸̷͇́͑͜w̶̷̵̨͍͒̂ő̷̵̸͈̔ͅ ̵̶̴̠̙̍̉e̷̶̵̲̟̅̔n̸̶̸͕̺̓̈́t̷̷̸̯̟̍̚ī̶̷̴̡̜͘r̵̷̷̨̠͂̚ȅ̶̷̴̦̥̑ ̸̴̷̼͖́͝ď̸̷̷̥̟͌a̵̴̷̞̙͌͂ẙ̸̸̶͙̙́s̵̷̷̨̞͌̾ ̸̷̴͕͇̒̕a̷̸̷̤͕̎̈́n̸̸̴̜̗̐̀d̵̵̵̦͖̄͝ ̷̷̶̭̳͛̿I̵̶̷͕̼̽̓ ̴̷̴̰̦̈́͗h̴̶̶̖̻̏͆á̶̵̴̛̫̟ṿ̷̴̷̛̈́͜é̷̶̸̬̬͑n̶̴̴̖̖͋̏'̸̴̷͕͛͋ͅt̸̷̷͖̟̿̕ ̶̶̸̣̯̽́s̴̵̴̟͙̽̍ẻ̶̸̶̳͘ͅẻ̴̷̵̝̩̒n̴̵̴͎̭͂̑ ̶̵̷͈͖̃̾a̸̴̵̙͙͐͆ǹ̴̴̷̺̹̑ỷ̸̸̷̨̙͌ő̵̴̸̤̟̽n̵̶̵̥̲͒͌ẻ̴̴̷͎͕͝ ̶̶̶̹̹̀͌ệ̸̷̶͔͝l̴̶̶̖̫̒̄s̷̶̷͙̟̓̎ě̶̵̵̡̩͐ ̸̵̵̖̫̋͐o̸̶̷͖͚̿̀ŗ̴̴̸͕͌͌ ̵̴̸̘͔͂̎ḣ̷̴̸͖̟͗e̴̷̵̫̺͊͒a̷̴̶͓̼̋͒r̸̷̵̫̹͑͝ď̸̴̸̡̘̌ ̴̶̵̻̭̅͝o̶̵̴̦̖͊̆f̴̷̶̞͔͛̃ ̷̶̵̪̥̏͊ą̵̷̶̼͌̅n̶̸̶̤̦͒̄ÿ̴̸̷̧̻́͛o̴̸̴̲̬͐͛n̶̶̷̖̘̈́̂e̶̷̶͇͐̐͜ ̶̷̴̮̬͊͐ȅ̴̵̸͎̜̆ḷ̵̴̶̬̅̐s̴̶̴̟̤̃̉ḙ̴̶̸̦͂́ ̶̶̵̠̦̑̕a̵̸̴͈̺͐̾p̴̴̸̡͑̄ͅp̴̷̷̢̨͗͒ë̶̸̵̩̠́͌ằ̵̴̷͖͙r̴̸̵͉̖̓̆i̸̷̶̥̹̿͆ṋ̶̵̴̨̔̕g̷̴̴̗̩͐͝ ̴̶̷̙̗́̚o̷̷̸̫̝̓͛n̸̴̶̥̣̈́̌ ̶̶̵̻͔͛̓t̵̴̴̙̻́̉h̷̴̵̼͍̓͝e̸̴̶̝̹͋̓ ̸̶̵̜̩̾́b̴̷̵̢̛̬̈́e̸̶̸̱̣͋̑ą̷̵̸̖̆́č̶̸̷̢̙̌ĥ̴̴̷͈̃ͅ ̸̵̷͍̞̏͠f̵̶̷͔̝̾̚r̶̴̴̙̺̿͂ǒ̶̵̷̬̺͗m̷̴̸͚̻̆̀ ̷̸̸͔͕͐̀a̶̶̶̳̖͐̂n̵̶̷̜̯̄́y̵̸̷̳̦̾͆o̸̷̴̬͖̊͐n̵̸̶͖̰͘͝e̶̴̵̦̯̾͋!̵̶̵̺̩̏̏ ̵̴̷̯͍͒͑W̴̸̷̮̝̋͒h̵̶̶͚̲̎͐á̵̵̴͔̩͋t̷̸̶̗̳́̾ ̷̶̵̩͉̽͝ḫ̷̷̷̛̺̌a̶̶̸̟̞͌̅v̴̶̷̹͈̄͝e̵̵̵͓̦̽̂ ̶̸̷̩̩͒̚w̵̸̸̗̠̃̌ȩ̴̵̶͇̀̋ ̸̴̴͉̺͊̃b̶̶̶̬̜͊̕ē̴̷̶̫̟̍e̴̴̸̦̜̋͗n̴̴̸̡͉͆̄ ̶̵̵̛̭̘̃d̵̵̴̜͎̅̑o̸̷̴̝͓͊̀i̴̴̵̤̦̒͌n̷̵̷͇̠̎͂g̸̵̵̭͇͗͆,̵̴̸̠͈͝͝ ̶̵̷͎̤͗̓b̷̸̵̤̭͐̆ė̴̴̵̢̡̃i̵̷̴͈̥͂͠n̴̷̶̻̱̽̈́g̶̶̴̢̾͌ͅ ̷̷̵̧̥̿͋s̷̵̶͎̺̓͂o̷̷̵̠̦̓̊ ̸̸̶̨̠͛̂h̶̴̸̤̃͜͝o̵̶̶̹͚͌̓p̶̵̶̙͇̾́e̸̴̸̯̜͆̽f̵̷̴̧͉͐̓u̷̵̷̹̖̾͆l̷̸̷͕̞͂͐!̸̸̵̭̱̆̈ ̴̸̴̪͕́̚W̵̷̸̮̠͋͝h̴̷̴̪͓̊̎y̸̸̶̱̣͌͂ ̴̶̷̢̙̌̍ǎ̷̶̵̗̺̚r̵̸̵͓̘͂͝e̸̷̵̯̩͒̚n̷̶̵͖̬̏̐'̴̴̷͙̼̕͘t̴̴̷̘̰̏̚ ̶̷̷̠̤͂͠ŵ̷̵̷͖̤̑e̶̵̸̻͍̓̚ ̶̵̶̟̯̈́̎m̸̸̷͕̯̽̀o̸̷̷̧̨̔̍ư̵̵̶̧̮͝ŗ̵̵̴̜̃̓n̴̶̴̯̫͛̈́i̸̸̸͉̟̾͐ń̸̶̸̙͇̓g̸̴̶̡̪̀͝ ̸̸̶̯̯̒̉f̵̶̴͖͙̎̇o̴̸̴̧̬͐̒r̶̶̶͔̾̑ͅ ̶̴̸̞̭̃̽ò̴̷̶̖̗̈́u̷̶̴̢̟̇͋ŗ̴̴̵̹̿͘ ̷̸̵̠͇̒̉i̵̷̷̩͎͒̋m̶̶̵͈̣̿̋p̸̶̵̫̹̈͘ẽ̴̴̵̙̖̀n̸̷̴͓͙͘͝d̸̶̸̢͍͐̚i̸̸̶̻͖͌͛n̸̶̶̺̫̎͒ǧ̵̴̵͍̟̕ ̶̶̸͚͚͊͝ḑ̷̷̸̣͊͘e̸̷̸͔͉̅͌à̷̶̴̫̜̊t̵̶̶̩͑̚ͅh̵̷̴̨̺́͘s̷̶̵̨̩̍̀,̶̶̶̫̻͆̂ ̶̴̸̱̖̌̅ẘ̶̶̷̦̠̍h̶̴̶̡̭̏̒y̵̴̶̧͍͗̅ ̴̴̵̲͙̈́̍ả̵̵̵̝̹͒r̷̷̵̺̖̅͗e̴̶̴̺̐́͜ ̸̸̸̫͇͂̉w̸̴̵̨̥̃̒ẻ̷̶̶̯͖̕ ̴̷̷̰̃̽͜n̶̸̸͔͔̅͊o̵̸̵̮̒̚ͅt̷̸̵̯͍̅̃ ̴̸̷͇̼͐̀d̶̴̴̨̻̽̒i̶̴̸̦̟̓̇ǵ̸̶̶̘̥̚g̸̶̵̲̪̋̋i̷̶̸̜̦̔͗n̶̵̷̙̪̕͠g̷̶̴̜̰̅̎ ̷̷̵̝̺̏̌o̴̴̸̧̩͘͝u̷̶̷̺͍͝͝r̸̴̵̡̜̍̕ ̷̴̸̨͖̇̀ḡ̴̷̴̡̻͌r̴̵̵̘̜̔͛ā̵̵̸͍̼̚v̵̷̵̘̥͊͊e̵̶̶͙͕̽̏ś̷̵̶̮̜̉!̶̵̸̹̜̍̐ ̶̝̽This is so unreasonable...why can't someone just help us...where is our rescue? Where are our saviors? ̧̗̟͓̃̽̒̅W̼͕͎̱͌̌̓͝ę̢̼̯̿̆̑̚r̰͕̲͕͊̊́̈́e̠̟̲̝̊́̆̈ ͇̻̖̘̑͐̒̈́t̖̫̩͆͆͊͛͜r̛͔͕͓͋̒̚ͅȁ̳̼͔̼̑̌͘p̳̙̙͔͐̀͛͝p̤̫͇͇̽̄͗͠ĕ̢̯̹͍͒̈̓d̻̘̖̭̎̽̕͝ ̭͍͖͓̅̓͘͝h͉͍̣̥͂̅̎̋ẽ͕̺͈̻̿̍͘r͔͇̰̝̀͌̐̀e͍͈̜̭͑͐̃͊,͕̳̥͕͗̈́́̋ ̥̫̘̥͆̾͑͝ą̛̰͚͇̍̃͝l̘̱̳̯̓͊͐̈́ỡ̧̹͓͒͠ͅn̦̘͓̑̓̂͜͠e̖̲̲̾̔͆͜͝,̡̪̝̻͋͐̓͘ ̳̳̱͊̄̈̎͜a͚͇͎͆̄̎͜͠n̢̞̰͇̍͛́̔ḑ͎̱̣̆͒͗͗ ̪̲͕̝̽̓̈́͝n̨͈̝̟̈́͛̐̊ờ̦̼͚̳̽̕ ͉̖͇̪̅̌͋͆o̭̙̳͐̍̌̍ͅn̡͚͉̖̈́̔͂͘ę̡̺͐̅̽͌͜ ̫͇̼̫̓̆̎́k̢̙̤̝̆͆͐̓n̬̩̝̜͊̀̂͠ö̻̯̝̹́̚̕̕w̻͎̺͌̓͊́͜s̙̩̦̪̈́͌̽̾ ̧̺̬̖̋̓͊̄a̛̜̟̬̜̓͋̈ḇ̝̙͙̔̏̊̓o͓͙̓͌̕͘ͅͅu̲̲̪͕͗̃̓̊t̗͍̮͛̑̆́͜ ̢̨̘̞̐́́̾i̼̠̩̅͗͛͘͜t̯̜̼̫̂̓̕͠!̠͙͙͕̍̔̀͝ ̡̮̹͓̓̔̅̍N̢͇̗̻̓̈́͒͝O̘̩͓̦͑̍̇͝ ̣͉͓̺̾̑͠͝Ỏ͍̯̺̖͐̚͝Ǹ̝͈̘́̓͝ͅȨ̗̭̫̀͐̀͝!̘̗̯̪̈̑̕͘ ̨̹͚̻͐̈́͂̑W̨̱͖̣̍̐̋̽è̝͓̲̟͛͂̃ṛ̝̜̠̈́̋̈́̓e̮̯̯̫̊̅̓͠ ͉͓̹̰̓̇̍̅s̟̼͙͉̔́̽͆t̫̟̩́̏͂̋͜r̡̹̝̣̈̔̏͝ȁ̬͇̟̜̂̄̋n̢̜͍̣͋̈́͗̈́d̨̮̭͇̈͂́̂e̢̳͓̙͐̎̌̍d͕͓̣͇͊̒͊̀ ̨̟̲̯̓̆̐̾h̢̝̤͍̃̾͆͘ḙ̛͚͇̼́̂͝r̹̰͇̫̃̉̚̚ë̬̞̳͍̆̌͘ ̻̫͖̺͂͑̋̕ȃ̦̼͇̞̄̒͗n̢̬̙̖̈́̿̿͆d̢͉̦̤̔̌̈̑ ͚͇̭͓̓͌́͘ẗ͉̞̹̬́̾̚͝ḧ̫̰̖͇́͛̃͘e̩͓̭͚̎̋̓͝r͈̤̣͍̀̈́͝͠e̛̝̺͖̤͛̄̚'̛̝͉͇̂̀̈ͅs̢̹̩̜̅͆̿̓ ̧̭̙̥̊̒̃͛n̪̠̭̹̆̊̐͊o͙̫͎͈̒̏͆̔t͓͎̘̺̐̒͗̈h̜̗̞̹̔͗̈́͊ḯ͔̟̝̭̎̌̈ǹ̡͙̗̙͌̌͊g̡̰̞͓̎̔͌̋ ͚̪̮̏͛̀̃ͅw̧̥̭͉̍̽͑͠ë̢̮̩́̈́̕̕ͅ ̫͉̤̭̈͌̓̕č̡̝̜͓́̑̄a͙̩͓̰͑̏͝͠n̖͓̪̪̽͂͛̅ ̘͙̜̝́͛̏̉d̤͎͓̱̃͋̽̌ò̞̬͎̒̈́͠ͅ ̤̱͇͉̒̈́̑̑à͓̖̳̥̈́̊̚ḃ̰͖͇͓̌͒͝o̥̣̣̜̐̈́͐̈́ũ͙̯̹̻͗̄̿ṫ̗͍̤̤̃̏́ ̯͇̹̫͑̿͘͝ị̧̠͈͊̆̋̿t͈̬̮̙̔̀͗̚,̞̠̟͉̆͂͐͘ ̟̭͇̤͋͑̋͝Ǹ̢͎̬̝̒̂̅Ö̪͇̥͔́̇͘͝Ţ͖̤̈̓̽͜͠H̨̡̙̺͙͚͕̘̗̻͈̥͚̝̠̗̮͓̮͕͍̝̻̗͖͓͖͚̖̜̤̥͈̭̣̟̟͖̥̖̫̜̭̝̮̘͎̰̙̹͚̣͚̜͖͚̪͆̽͛̉ͅI̧̡̢̧̡̧̲͕͓͉̭̼̠͚͍͈͍̱̪̼̥̭͈͚̰̺̝̙͍͎͚̯͕̮̘̜̥̝̬͈̪̫̜̩̟̜̱͓̠͔̗̱͚͎̔͑̐̊͜͜͜ͅN̡̡̡̢̨̨̡̡̲̱̬̣̪̱̦͙̝̫̝̱̳͇̫̼͉͓̤̹͇̣͚͉͎̦̙͖͙̳̟͈͕͈̖̣͈̰͓̞̜͙̩̰̙̝̞̗͌̀̚͜͝ͅĢ̧̨̧̨̭̯̗̝̰̠̜̻͖̜̗̗̥̜̫̭̻̱̠̠̹͍̥̰͖̹̟͕͍͈̱͕̣̯̫̫̞͕̟̭̦̥̦̜͈̳̹͇̯̏̈͋̈͜͜͜ͅ,̡̧͚̖̞̘̪̺̣͕̥̙͇̜͇̥͇̮͕̫̠͍̱͉̻͚̲̮̰̝̮̮̣̟̯͎̘̭̞̱̼̝̪̖͎̻̝̙̳̲̠͇̞̪̒̇̾́͜͜͜͜ ̨̧̨̢̡̧̢͓̜͎͍̝͍̩͉͎͇̤̠̼̗̮̙̹̩͉͔̬̼̘̻̦̻̠̜͈͖̙̘̗̬̝̖̪̣͍̭̣͖̣̣͙̹̯̝͚͒̔̾͛͜ͅb̧̨̨̢̖̮̩̹̝͓̖̣̪̖̰͓͉̜͚̰͍̝̬͍͙̣̻͈͉̤̭̘̻͖̘̠͇͎͇͙̪̬͍͚͕̣͔̳̹̱̟͍̪͍̤͈͓̅͗̔̚͜è̢̨̡͉̻̘̩̲͓̯̝̮̯̝̱̪̭̠͚͍͈͕͖̪̖͔͇̱̘͖̻̪͙͕͇͚̜̻͍̪̖̝̰͙͉͓̖̪̝̯̯͉̤̝̔̉̀ͅͅͅͅc̢̢̧̢̡̰̫͉̺̣̭̗̘̤̥͇̬̱̖͖̯̲̣͇̫̥̺̘̲̗͚̣̖̝̥̝̳̰̼͚̖̗̩̹̳̯͎̼̪̠͕͓̦̳̜̽̒̕͜͜͜͝â̢̨̢̨̜͇̼̻̟̝̰̪̲̳̟̦̺̪̦̺͇̩̬̱͕͇̟͔̫̯̞͕͇̳̭̮̖̹͎̼̦̳̟̣͈̙̪̰̙͉͍̥̥̠̥̻̓͐̕͜͜ú̡̧̡̡̹̺̜͔̻̖̫͎͓̲͉̜̹̝͇̫̙͚̻̩̲̱̥͕̬͇̳̰͓͇̼͔͓̹͉͈̖̗̳̙̟̩̦͕̳͙̻̟̥̳̤͔̥̐̚͜͝s̢̢̨̨̹̦̙̲̘̬̙̹͓̣̜̱͕̱̙͓̞͙̺͙̗̱̩͍̩͉̻̩̳͕̗̦͓̤̯̺̮̖̤͙̝̳̥̤̥̭̜̝̼͍̲̻͛͑̈́̎͜ͅę̨̢̢̨̧̬̯̟͙̮͖͎͕̖͓̯͖͉̳̯̜̬̭̺͓̣̙̜͔̫̱̺̰̜̟͓̟͈̰̯̙̼̥̭̱͍̫̥͎̦͕͓̗̉̈̃͊͜ͅͅͅ ̨̨̢̢̧̝̥̙̫̗͙͎̟͓̦̳͚̠͚͈̠͈̝͙̙͈͚͍̗̭̥͇̹̼̣̖̼̥̬̪͖̝͈͇͕̟̰̬̳̦͖̘͈̹̠͐͐͆͐͜͜ͅṈ̡̨̨̧̡̢̧̙̞̻̦̺͍̫̖͙͎̥͎͔̝̪̰̪̯̻̗̙͚̹͚̖͍̙̤̞͓̩͓̹͙̩͕̞̞̫͍͈̦̜̼̰͚̝̰̝̅̓͗̎ͅO̤͔͍̩̖̮̙̖̺̦̳͍͍͙̼̰͍̦̜͖̼̝̣̱̪͉̺͍̬̖̳̻̩̣̝̺̝͎͎͚͇̠̙͓͙̤͎̳̳̠͉̥̯͕̬̲̾̅̾͘͜͜ ̧̨̧̢̨̝̜̯̟̺̪̲̜̗̤͖̝͓̯͔̗̬̖̭͎̮͈̣̫̞͚̫͎̝̼͍̤̩͔̼̹̯̹͚͍̤͎̜̯͈̟̺̤̝̙̥̺̞̀̃͊͘Ǫ̢̧̧̨̡̧̺̻͇̭͚͙͍͉͓̘̳̟̭͎̫͉̳̝̻̲̟̠̱̟̜͉̹̙̙̜̼̘͕̝̩̻̬̙̱͕̥͍͕͕̺̜̮̼̺̥͋͑͘͜͝Ņ̢̡̧̡̧̨̢̨̧̡̥̗̺̜̤̘̘̦͙͈̳̭̪̻͉̣̟̜̹̜̗̦͇̱̳̣͔̮̻͍̲͕̣̻̮̦̫̫̯͎͙̦̟͔͈̈̔̏͜͠ͅĘ̢̢̢̢̨̢̩̬̤̘̝̰̟̜̫̮̪̜̳̥̘͓̯̩̩̞͉̦̬̦̜̙̣̺͎̣͔͉̤͚͙̭͔͎͇̖̩̻̗̘̟̝̥̪͂̄̽̄͜͜ͅ ̨̧̢̢̨̢̨̢͙̬̬̥̯̹̱̻͔͍̘̰̩̠͈͉̹̲̰̻̞̝͇̲̠̗̩̖̗̹̬̙̗̥̰̖͎̥̘̖̼̰̖̫͔̝̳͔̭̉̊̇̽͜k̡̡̧̨̢̲̤͕̞͈̗͖͎̬̝̺̠̲̱̣̖͕̤̠͙̼͓̱̞͚͍̻͙͎͓̠̳̤̠͈͔̲̘̗̬̩͕̮̞͍̮͙̦̘͗͛̾͘͜͜͜ͅṇ̢̢̧̨̛̖̠̜̟̪͎̬̞̫͔̘͔̱̟̫̹͓̻̘̳̣̥̞̟̻̱̮̣̗͎̣̯̤̭̜̤̙͎̱̦̙͓̳̭͚̹̪̫̪̳̹̥͂͜͝͝o̡̡̜̖̻̩̯̠͔̙̫̩̹̫̱̝̙͕̬̰̳̟̖̘̮̙̳̮̪̮̺̼̰̻͓͎͉̥͖̼̼̙̲̬̹̟͈̞̟̳̰̫̹͙̩̯͊̋̃͜͝ͅw̧̨̢̨̢̻̲̟̦͙̠̯̦̤̯̮̦̻̰͎͉̬̤̦̗̺̙̯̟̱̮̱̯̜͇̭̠̥͍̦̞̮̟̪͈̪̯͈͍̞͈̜̯̟͙̆̾̿̕͜͜ͅs̢̧̡̧̡̡̨͎͔̟̦͉͇͙͎͍̟̟͖̱̫̮̹̼̲̞̣̺̝̝̰̬̼͎͉̺̣̤̰̘͈̟͍͉̤͍͔̲̯̘̲̲̳̘̮̥̙̟͑̆̓͠ ̢̨̧̨̨̡̨̢̳͇̙̰̼̥̯̩̮̦͎̯̦̭̪̰̙͔̳͈̯̹̥̻̼͉̯̬͚̖̭͔̪͎̘̭̪̪̖̩̙͓̲̬̺̼̦̭͙͙̄͌̆̄w̡̨̢̡̯̤̭͚̻̫̹̗̯͓̼͍̗̹̯͓̱̰̜̥̭̝͍͈̮̱̖͇̞̻̙̟͎̳̹͔̲͖̯̦̪̟̰̘̗̤̞͖͔̥̝͔̉̔̓͜͝ͅë̗̺̬̰̞̯̭̞̬̗̱̯͚͙͙̗̳͍̤̙̗̟̗̩̻̰̘̳̜̠̻̙̱͚̪̙̬̫̤̮̪̪̗̭̣̦̘̱͉̩͇͖͔͚̻́̉͂͜͝ͅͅr̨̢̧̧̡̙̟̺̤̼̺͈̟̘̦̘̞̱̟̮̪̩̝̫͎̼͕̙͙̰̬̬͔̹̻̥̦͍͉̫̥̖̞̭͕̥̗̯̤͉̜̦̬̖͚͌͑͂̚͜ͅͅe̢̡̢̢̡̢̧̼̥̝̣̰͉͚̗͇̭̬̹̬̝̳̯̬̳̰̗̭̠͕̺̯͕͎̮̦̬̫̟̤̫̬̥̝͕̞̱͎̹͔̦̠̤̜̅͌͊̎͜͜͜ͅ ̨̡̡̢̡̙̝̩͙̩͖͕͓̦̯̘̰̠̪̞̮͖̫̤̖̻͇̦̥̯͓̙̼̺̰̬̞̖̼̝̻̠̝͇̤̮̙̳̭͖͉̰͎̦̹͐̃̈́͛͜͜ͅȩ̡̢̡̡̢̡͚̹͉͉̺͖̺̯͈̹̝̼̤̥̘̞͚̖͙̪̱͇̩͉̖̣͔͉̞̪̰̤̱̤̱̯̮̤̠̤̭̱̺̟̳̱̩̱̬̈́̈́̀̈́ͅͅv̧̡̢̨̨̧͍̥̣̤̟͉̩̥̳͇̝̟̤̳͔̯̮̹̙̭̠̜̘̫͉̰̹̦̲͚̹̺͕͎͉̱̳̫̼̗͈̻̮̝͉̯͚̹̹̉̎͜͜͝͝ͅe̡̡̧̧̢̨̠̲͓̖̣̼̗̥̳͓̮̝̥̣̭̘͚͇͚̙͙̯̭̦̪͖̟͕̹̟͔̱͈̰͕̼̙̲̱͉̤̳̞͔̤̗͍͂͊̑̓͜͜͜͜ͅn̢̧̡̰̮̪͇̬̩̩̟̹̳̳̩͈̪̲̼͔̖̠̥͖̯̱̘̥̞̠̗̝̰̬̦̰̹̣̮͉̺͉̬̺͇̣̮̬̤̮̠̻͎̪͙̝͒̓́̀͜͜ ̨̨̡̡̨̛̼̤̲̯̟̮̮̱̮͇̺̹͍̠͚̣̜̙͈̙̮̺͔̜̞̺͕̰̤̬͉͇̩̲̯͕̬͎̖̟̼̣͚͙̙͉̹̩̞̣̩̫̇̒́͜h̨̧̧̨̨͇̞͇̙͍͓͔̩̙̞͎̹͍̩͓̪̘̤̜̤͍̻̤̞͓͍̗̺͓̟͎̲͔̠̮̱̹̯̞͕͚͍͓̞͕̬̭̺̮͍̦̞̏̑͒̐ͅe̡̡̧̧̨̢̖̘̯̦̙̟̥̪̤̲̱͔̱̣̬̘̤̠̖̟̹̮͈̻̖͔̜̞̠̻͔̩͍͖̹̦͔̱̜̲͖̠͔̪̣̮̙͐̽̐͘ͅͅͅͅͅr̢̧̧͍̫̮̱̱͉͙̟̻̠̦̟͎̥̫̯̳̯̤̟͖̤̠̝̰͓͖̖̬̦̲͓͉̱̪̖̦̼̰̭͇̟͈̦̦͕͈̲̱͚͍͙̰͒̀̇̽͜ͅe̢̡̧̢̱̖̟̳̼̜̪̝̜̝̺̱̰̮̝̞͇͓̻̟̮̻͖̺̖͈̠̻̫̖͕̭̱̪͓̼̦̙̗͉̥̭͉̟̫͇͚̹̣̰̭͊͒͋͜͠ͅͅ!̢̮̬̯̰̫̬̞͚̖̥̝̪͈̤̘̻̗̱͈͓̺̝͓̜̘̝̹̬͚̖̫̞̩̱̗͙̩͓̜͚͚̰̥̪̺̝̟̠͚̫͚͕̗̺̘̀͐́̚ͅͅ ̧̩̬̟͒̽͌̓W̨̧̢̢̧̢̨̢̢̢͕̼̳̱̖̬͚̻̳͎̯͉̪̪̺̺̙̜̺͈̯̟͎̟̝̬͂̈́̆̀͜͜ͅͅĘ̢̢̳̻͙͉͕̳̳̺͖͉̺̯̝͕̮͍̯̠̞̘̦̙͕̦̺̘̟̙̯͎̺͉͓̱͕̝̓̄̕͘͜R̨̥͉̯͖̘̗͕̖̭͔̫̖̣̦̖͔̜͖͍͖͉̲͎͔̩͓̰̩̱͖̭͚̱͔̠̰̄̍͊͜͜͝ͅĘ̯̩͎̝̝̺̱̲͙̬̜̮͍̬̗̩͓̻̟͓̙̬̣̠͍͈̱̠͙̺̟̪͎̳̟̯̹̾̇̀͋ͅͅ ̡̢̨͚̜̫͕͎͎̱͚͚͎͚̩̜̤̞̙̣̣̙̠̝̘̹̫̪̣̞̝̺͍̻̫̗̩̣̍̎̊͜͝ͅA̢̧̧̩̮̣̣̳̗̪̫̤͉̬̦͉͇̰͙̖͕̺̙͎͍̪̠̮͕̜͕̪͎̯͕͆̈̚͜͜͜͜͝ͅL̨̡̡̛̞̖̪̣͇͓̤̪͍̫̻̱͖̠̞̰̞͉̱̯̫̗̲̣̲͉͚̝̮͈̘̱͓͎̒͑̀͜͜ͅL̢̨̨̯̩̩̦̯̳̱̦͍̹̰̝͍͉̞͔̥͇͖͈̙͍̼̦̫̣̰̭͓̣͍͙̗͈̭̙̓͑͒̽ͅ ̛̠̭̜̼͙̳̯̲̱̥̞̥̳͙̟͇̌̓̚͜&#]

T-there has to be people looking for us. W-Wouldn't they search for survivors? Isn't that the right thing to do? The rescue team wouldn't just abandon us. Would they? Were not dead, and were still alive, Vinny's doing work and Kram's recovering and I think were finding plenty of supplies to live off of. We could survive for a long time. We could probably live here for years off the debris the ship's giving, a whole crew's worth for us to scavenge. If that turns up we could always plant something, water it daily, and grow food on our own farm right? But then we'd have to till the land and tend to it everyday. I'm sure Vinny and Kram would be up for the task. If that doesn't work, we might just starve to death. To be honest I don't see us being saved by anyone else other than someone out there who just happens upon us. Getting out through the ocean back to society is out of the question considering the only boat material I could see is wood from the tropical trees, and worst, I don't think we have an axe or anything to cut it with. The debris from the ship is sadly too lackluster for us to do anything with it, maybe with all the debris we could mash up something together, but that would be demanding much more effort for a slightly better material to work with, it's not viable, no realistic, unrealistic. Ahh, I wanna go home right now, what am I even doing here? I just want to sleep in my warm, comfy bed around my homely walls and ceilings, I want to eat not for survival but for my own pleasure, I want to eat a proper meal with my grandparents, Why'd the boat have to named St. Jude anyways? It's because the boat name sounds so much like a certain traitor in a book that it was bound to sink. The only way for a possible rescue is if a rescue team keeps searching the waters around here aimlessly until they arrive here, that's the only sensible thing that could happen, but what if this place isn't known, this island, or worst these waters? What if no one knows where we are? Perhaps that's why it might be taking any rescue boats awhile to get here, right? No, we shouldn't be too far from where the cruise sank, so they should easily be able to find us. Yeah, that's right, there's no way that were actually lost because the explorers and adventurers who first came to these places long ago have already done their job mapping it. There must be thousands of copies of those maps, and it won't be long until someone finds it and makes their way here. I̚'͝m̔ ̂s̛u͗r̈́e̎ ͠ît̃'̎s̈ ̈́j̓u̾s̏t̆ ̎m̂ŷ ͆i̓m̉p͝ãt͌i͑ĕn̎c̿e͆,̏ ̀b̉űt͋ ̚I͑ ̀j͂ús̓t͑ ̾ĉa͊n̕'̀t̏ ̕g͠e̒t͝ ̏i͆t̿ ̂o̒ǔt͠ ̍o̐f̔ ́m̓y̐ ̐m̀i̕n̏d̂.̍ ̃Ǹò,̓ ̊n̈ŏ,̚ ̅t͂h̔e̓y̏'̅l̄l̽ ̍s̎ưr̆ë́l͋y̚ ͆c̚o͘m͠e̒,̛ ͝ẗh͒e͗y͌ ̔h̄a̅v̄e͝ ̂t̿ỏ,̓ ͗h̕ȁl̈f́ ̓t̾ḧ́e̓ ̈́w͆o̾r̐l̛d͌'͗ś'͘ ͝p̿r͐o̓b̊ăb͛ĺy̐ ̈s͝e͘e̊i̿n̾g̔ ͌t̂h̿i͑s̏ ͂a̕s̈ ͂ä́ ̍t̉ȑa̽g͑e̛d̄y̓ ̐s̋e͝e̓ȉn̏g͘ ̏a͛s͂ ̆a̚ ͛c̑r̛u̒i͐s̓ē ̇w̔i̾t͒h͝ ̓s͂o̕ ̈m̕ưc̅h͘ ́p̄e͋o̊p͗l̂e̎ ̾s̛a̋n̅ḱ,͝ ̐s͐ò ̾ťh͐ẽr̛e͠ ̊ĥa̛s͌ ͑t͠o̒ ̚b͊e͆ ̎ȧn̑ ͑úp̈́r͐o̅ãr͊ ͛g̏o̅i͒n͊g̚.̒ ͘A̐l̂l͠ ̒t̉h́o̊s͌e̔ ͠l͒o͌s͠t́ ͝ìn̽ ͂t̃h͂ẻ ̿s͗èa͊,͊ ̆w̒h̒e̓r͊e͘ ̅c̚o͗űl͂d͋ ̉t̀h͝ë́ÿ́ ̍b̂e̊?͘ ̒B̽e͝c̈́a̎u̿s̐e̛ ̽e͒v̉e͐r̒y͛ö́n͊ě ̀c̐än̈́'͂t̀ ͛h̏a̅v̅e͝ ̌d͝i͌e̽d͝,̃ ̚t̾ḣa̕t̃ ̓ẁö́u̇l̃d͛ ̿b̌e̽ ̃i̎m̐p̓ős̎s͛i͝b͝l̐e͊ ̾r̔i̓g̿h̐t͝?͝ ̎I̎'͒m̓ ̂s̍ùr̀e͘ ̊e̎v̾e̓r͠y̏ón͠e͠ ̓w͝ās̄ ͂åb̂l̈e̓ ̈́t̀ŏ ̃g̅èt̚ ̽òǘt͝ ̏ǐn̋ ̀t̎h̊e̓ ̿p̋án͘i͑c̆,͊ ̆a̿f͊t̔ë́r̿ ͗a͑l̾l̐,̋ ̕b̀ȍa̕t͘s̔ ̕h͆àv̕e͋ ̈s̏àf͛ë́t̄y̑ ̛m͑ȅåśu͠r̄ë́s̏ ̍f͝õr͆ ͊ä́ ̅r͛e̽ás͑ŏn̔,̛ ̈́r̋i̚g͛h̚ẗ́?͆ ͒N̅ơ,̊ ͋d̎o͐n̔'͌t̒ ͠t̾e̾l͘l̓ ͒m̒ě.͊.̕.̚t̿ḧe̅ ̒s̿ǔr͝v͋i͝v͗o͘r̉s̄,͛ ̈́t̆h̚e͆ ̍p̚a̽s̒s̓e̚ńg͑ėr̓s̃,̈́ ́t͗h͋e͊ȳ ͂m̋u̚s͑t̍'̂v̌e̊ ͊m̔ǎd̛e͗ ̿ȉt̀ ̎o͠n̽ ̒s̍h̆o̅ȑe̋ ́b́ÿ́ ̓ěv̛ēn͌t͛u͐ál̐l̈́y͑ ̀d̅r̾ȉf̎t̊i͗n̚g̍ ̐t̽o̾ ̊t̃ḧ́e͐ ̚i̐s̈l̆a̚n͆d͝,̽ ̒s͆o̽ ͛e̽v̌e̛řy͑o̕n̓ẽ'͠s̍ ̆a̋l̀i̚v͛ē,͗ ͝r̎ĭg̿h̋t͝?̃ ̈R͂i͊g̏h̊ẗ́!͝?̒ ͂T́h̎ȃt̐ ̓ḣä́s͌ ̈́t͝ǒ ̌b̀e̎ ̓r͊i͂g͘h͂t̕!̃ ̇I̅ ͝ċa͑n͆'͝ẗ́ ̍b̅ĕ ̃ẁr̅o̿n̓g̚,̈́ ̇t̀h̃èy̒'́r̈e̔ ̊a̎l̆l͝ ́a̔l̓ĩv̏ë́ ̋ãǹd̍ ̂ít͂'̿s̐ ͛j̅u̎s̍t̋ ͑m̄y̏ ̕i̐m̓a͂g͊ǐn̓àẗḯo͝n̿ ̅t̋h̔a̽t̏ ̓e͒v̚e̍r͆y͘ǒn̒e̕ ͌d́i̿ěd́!͊ ͐N͝ö ͂o͝n͊é ͌d͝i̍e̍d̊!͘ ́Ĩ ͋w̕ĩs͂h̄ ̕s̎ȏm̌ë́o͝n̏ȅ ̃ẁo̕úl̑d̀ ́a̚n̋šẃe̿r͘ ̏m̈è,̆ ̍s̛o͝m̏ẻơn̈e̅ ͐j̽u̓s͐t̽!͋-͂ ́w͑áìt̊,͛ ̎ẃḧ́ȁt̓ ͑i̋f̈́ ̉t͐h̑e̛y͐ ͑s̓ä́ẅ́ ̎a̍l̈l͒ ͒t̾h̕e̋ ̒d̔-̔d̈́ēa͋d̑ ̛b̿-́b́u̔-͘b͋o̊d̽i̊e͛s͗ ͂a͐r̀o͌ùn̆d͑ ̃t͐h̛ȅ ̈s̛h̒íp̎ ͝a͝n̽d̉ ͆a͐s͌s̈ùm̅ěd̽ ̊ål͐l͑ ̉o̍f̅ ̒u͛s̄ ̈d̅-́d͐īe̒d̿!̍?̽ I̷ ̷c̶o̷u̷l̶d̴ ̷s̷e̷e̴ ̵h̴o̴w̸ ̸s̵o̴m̷e̴o̶n̸e̶ ̵m̴i̵g̷h̸t̴ ̶m̵̧̪̘̗̗͎̮͎̥̹͎͜a̵̧̡͔͎͓̻̞͚̦͉̲̱k̸̡̢̼̝̬͍̘̯̭̙̮͜e̵̦͈̯̩̝̥͕̖̭͚͜͜ ̸̧̯̫̫̭̰̬̫̫͓̹̙t̸̘̗͍̺̤̲͎̪̺̘̖̹h̶̨̨̰̼̮͎̹̦̱̤͇ͅa̸̢̹̳̹̪̩͉̯̰̜̟ͅt̶̜̟̹͍͓̲̹̟̤̦̣̘ ̸̧̢̠͓̟̣̟̗͈̞̺̪ą̵̻̺̰̹̯̼̹͍͍ͅͅş̸̟̭̭͖͈̬͇̳͕̮̘s̶͍̠̗͕̟̲͍͉̙̘͉͜ṳ̸̢̢͔̪̞̮̭̰̩̟̻m̷̢͙͙̹̺̫͈̼͖̗̻͜p̵̨̪̬̫͉̥̗̠̭̫̥͎ț̸̝͖͓͈̣͕̺̳͖̬ͅi̴̭̬͚̱̖͔͍̞̞͔̻ͅo̷̡̗̲̥͉̲̫̣̟̺̱͔n̶̰̼̟͕͙̱̘͎̱̝̗ͅ ̷a̵f̷t̷e̶r̴ ̶s̶e̴e̵i̷n̴g̵ ̶a̷l̸l̵ ̵t̷h̶e̸ ̴b̴-̷b̵l̸o̵o̴d̸ ̷i̴n̵ ̴t̷h̵e̷ ̴w̷a̶t̷e̶r̶s̵ ̷b̷u̶t̴-̸ ̷n̶o̵ ̷t̴h̶a̸t̴ ̶m̶e̴a̴n̷s̵ ̸t̵h̵a̸t̴ ̶p̵e̷o̴p̷l̷e̸ ̴d̶i̸e̴d̴,̵ ̴t̶h̶e̶y̸ ̷m̷u̴s̶t̵'̸v̴e̸ ̸b̵e̵e̵n̸ ̷i̵n̷j̶u̸r̷e̸d̵,̸ ̴j̶u̴s̴t̷ ̷m̷i̵n̸o̶r̸ ̴i̴n̶j̴u̴r̷i̶e̸s̸.̸ ̵I̸n̷j̴u̶r̵i̵e̸s̸ ̵f̸r̷o̸m̷ ̴s̵o̵ ̷m̶u̷c̶h̴ ̶p̶e̸o̴p̷l̶e̴ ̷t̵h̵a̵t̸ ̴t̶h̷e̶r̶e̶ ̶w̸a̴s̸ ̷e̴n̵o̶u̷g̶h̶ ̵b̷-̵b̶l̸o̵o̷d̴ ̵t̴o̶ ̸m̴a̸k̵e̶ ̸t̶h̴e̸ ̷w̸a̸t̵e̴r̷ ̸a̶̶̶̹͈ ̴̴̴̨̦l̵̶̵̡̖i̶̶̸̩̝t̷̸̴̜͍ţ̵̸̵̥l̷̵̴̫̺ȩ̶̶̵̲ ̷̴̸̭̖r̵̷̷͖̳-̷̴̶̨͇r̷̴̵̲̭e̴̷̴̱̪d̴̴̴̟̦,̶̶̸̤͉ ̶̸̸̧̘ỵ̴̶̶̨ȩ̵̴̴̮a̶̸̷̩͚ḥ̴̷̴͇ ̵̸̴̗͜i̴̴̴̜͎t̵̷̸͕̯ ̵̸̷͍̫m̶̵̷̲͍ṳ̶̶̶͎s̷̵̴̻͚t̶̵̴̨̫ ̶̷̷̱̯b̶̴̵̝̯e̶̴̷̗ͅ ̸̵̴͉̩t̵̸̸̜͕h̷̸̵̻̬a̷̴̶͕̦t̷̵̶̝̣!̷̴̴̟̱ ̴̴̴̹͕Ŗ̷̶̵̢-̷̴̷̯͔Ṟ̴̸̴ͅI̸̶̴̜̳G̸̷̸͓̲ẖ̸̴̸̬ț̵̴̸͓!̶̸̵͈̤?̷̷̸͚ͅ ̶C̶̴̵̼͇͗̊a̷̵̷̱̅͜͝l̶̶̵͖̳͛͋m̸̶̴̙̘͗̂ ̷̴̷͚̠̓̐d̶̷̶̠̠̑͒ȯ̷̷̷̖͝ͅw̴̵̵͔̟̓̈́ṅ̸̵̵̙̤̚ ̴̶̷̧̙̓͆c̷̷̸̭̠̈́̀ḁ̶̸̵͔̋̕ľ̴̸̷̢̻̇m̴̵̷̩̭̎̔ ̶̷̴̱̎̀͜D̷̵̴͖̭͐͘o̷̶̸̢̩̽̚W̸̴̴̜͓̓̋n̸̴̷̘͈͗̚ ̴̴̷͚̣̽̿Ç̷̸̶̛̦͂A̴̴̸͔͈̿͠Ḻ̸̴̶̩̌̀M̶̷̵̢̼͂̀ ̷̴̷̢͈̀̂D̸̴̴̞̹̉͝A̴̷̵̱̹̎͠W̷̷̷̰͍̉͛n̸̸̵̹͍̎͝-̵̷̴̦͕̇̀,̸̵̸̡͉̉̅ ̸̸̵̨̝͒͝b̷̷̷͈̤̽͒r̵̶̵͖̦̈́̐ë̸̵̷̡̨͝ȁ̶̸̶̬̘͝t̵̶̶̥̤̾̎h̷̸̷̰̗̀̂ē̷̴̴͇͇͝ ̶̷̵̩̦̈̕ḇ̷̶̵̘͛͘r̶̵̶̢̤̾̀ě̷̴̸̳̏ͅą̴̵̴̩̾́t̴̵̸̨̹̂̋h̵̵̸͕̜̉͒ ̴̵̶̣̙̈͠b̸̵̶̜̺͑͑R̷̶̸̗̱̒̒E̵̵̷̩̻̿̈́a̵̴̵͖͈̒͠T̴̷̸͙̘̈́̔h̵̷̴̟̤́̈ ̸̴̸̙̪͆̎E̶̶̴̖̝͒̆T̵̴̷̟͖͛̔H̷̷̸̨̼͋̍E̴̷̷̺̱̎̋r̶̷̴͙͖̂̃b̷̴̷̨̩̽̕h̸̴̷͓͎͂̉ ̸̶̶̲̯̑͝A̵̸̶̜̦͌͋Ḥ̷̶̸̗̈́͝r̸̶̴̗̩͗̄h̷̵̷͇̬̑̔,̵̴̵͇̭͌̏ ̸̴̸̞̻̎̇é̷̵̸̪͚̽v̸̶̸̧̦̽̃e̵̴̷̡̯̊͝r̸̴̷̩̣̂̋ý̸̴̵̢̘̃o̶̴̷̬̪̕͠n̵̵̸̡͖̏̎ḙ̸̴̸͍̈́͝ṯ̷̶̷̲̑̇h̸̸̴͈̦̀́i̸̵̶̠̭͊̎ņ̶̶̵̡̆͘g̴̴̷͕͓͌͝s̷̴̸̖̔́͜ ̴̴̷̙̐̃ͅg̷̶̷̝̫̾̉>̴̴̷̯̰̿̐ŏ̷̶̸͔͠ͅn̸̶̸͙̗̎̑n̶̸̵̪̜̔̚a̶̴̷̞͇͐͘ ̴̶̴̫̱̓̋b̵̶̵̡̠͌͠e̴̷̶̤͎͋̿ ̶̵̷̡̞́̿f̸̷̶̜̺͂̚ì̶̶̶͔̺̍n̵̷̷̢̳̿̊e̶̴̴͚̯̓̎ ̴̵̵̧̖͊̑f̵̶̸̨̬̀̔i̸̷̴͕̔́͜n̷̵̶̲̗͊́ë̴̴̴̗́̎ͅ ̷̵̷͓͕̓̌F̵̸̷̮͓̔͊i̸̴̴͖̠̓͝n̴̴̸̜̜͛̒ẹ̵̵̷̢͋̅,̶̷̴̣͔͂̓ ̷̶̴̫̮̽͌h̴̷̸̖͇̆̇-̵̷̵̧̭̑͗H̶̷̶͍͉̀͒ĕ̷̴̸̢͉̚l̵̵̷͉̳̇̚p̴̷̴̳̣̒̐S̸̶̸̬̩̔̑ ̶̵̵͕̗͐̓g̵̶̶̨̡̀̉o̷̵̶̧͚̓̚i̴̶̸̺͕̔̃ṅ̷̸̷̫͖̔g̵̵̶͍͓̊̂ ̶̴̵̜͙̽͠t̷̴̷̙̟̓͠ọ̴̶̶͌́͜ ̷̴̸̺͍͗͠c̷̵̶̫̮̀̇C̶̵̷̠̻͂̀k̴̷̵͖̖̀̆o̸̶̸̱̩̾̅m̶̸̷̬̣̄̑e̷̵̵̩͍͑͛ ̷̷̵̤͉͛̎<̶̸̵͔̪̉͌f̸̴̶̝̼̂̍o̵̸̸̠͈͆̃u̴̶̵͔͙͋͝r̶̶̴̬͈̔̐ ̸̴̴̟̺̋̆ś̷̴̴͇͙̈́u̸̵̷̩̲͒̂ȑ̷̷̴̫͙͝ḛ̴̷̶̭̈́͂,̴̴̷̱̤͋́ ̸̴̵̠̠̍̒ỵ̶̷̶̢͑͝e̴̵̵̥̻͌̋a̷̶̵̞̙̔́h̴̵̸̬̖̽͝,̴̷̷͍̙͗́ ̷̸̶̜̹͛̈́ï̵̷̵̢̪̄t̶̷̴̛͎̪̔'̸̸̵͈̲̇̇s̶̷̵̡͔͋͋ ̸̶̴̦̍̎ͅṉ̷̴̶̟̂̈ơ̸̸̷̹̼̕t̴̴̷͚̙̽͆ ̶̷̵̹͋͜͝l̴̷̸̩͖̉̑i̵̶̴̤̮͐͝k̵̵̶̡̞̆̈́e̸̶̶͓̎̅͜ ̴̴̶͈̥̀̏w̸̶̴̭̻͗̇e̵̸̵͍̳̐̊r̵̵̷̗͖̋̈́ę̶̴̵̡̆̓ ̵̶̵̦̞̿̕a̵̵̷̻̩͑̆ļ̸̸̶͔͋͛l̷̴̵͇̥͂̈́ ̷̴̴̭̼̆͌g̵̴̶̭̫̔͝ǫ̷̸̵̹͑͛i̸̶̴̹͓͆͒ń̶̵̵̖̹̓g̶̴̴̯̩̿͌ ̸̶̷̬̗͆͘t̸̷̷̯̳͌̇o̴̷̶̹͕͒͝ ̴̶̸̨̹̿̒ḃ̷̵̷̲̝̚e̸̵̸̲̖͛̕ ̷̸̷̧̤̊͊ń̷̵̸͓͕͐-̸̴̴̡͖̐̿n̴̸̸̳̗̉͌e̵̷̶̺̠͛̍x̴̷̴̲̺͒̍t̴̴̵̨̺̕͘ ̸̶̶̙̝̓̀ḋ̶̶̶̘̙̆ḭ̴̸̴̪͐̒s̷̷̸̳̟̈́͒a̷̸̸̦̭͒͒s̷̸̵̰̖̍͆ṱ̸̸̵̬̅̓é̶̴̶̩̞͝r̴̵̸̹̣̾̑ ̸̴̶̥͚̾͘ǫ̴̵̸̮͆͝n̷̷̸̢̫̋̔ ̵̸̵͎̙̅̂T̴̶̶̲̰͛͠V̵̵̸͙̘̽͝ ̵̸̸̩̘́̍ó̸̵̶̡̙̓ȑ̶̵̷̮̰̊ ̴̷̷̞́̈͜â̴̶̶͚̤͝n̷̸̷͔̤͛̀y̸̸̴̩̑͜͝t̵̴̶̳̦̋͠h̶̸̵͖̱̊̂i̵̵̷̥͈̽͗n̸̴̴̰̦̄͌g̵̷̵̫̖̃̑,̵̵̷̛̰̊͜ ̸̵̸͈̦͛̀e̶̴̷̢̞̊̋v̸̷̸̬̳̽͂ę̶̸̴̯̏̔n̷̶̷̜̞̑̕ ̷̴̸̟͈͑̕ţ̷̸̷̣̑́h̷̴̴̼̜̒̆ò̵̸̶̥̞͛ṵ̸̴̴̤͆̐g̵̸̶͕̞̓̀h̶̴̴̻̰̅̅ ̶̴̸̡̬̿̔w̷̴̴̡̘͐̚è̷̶̶̳͎̒ ̴̸̸͖̉͝ͅk̷̸̸̝̝̇̚i̴̵̶̩̤̅̂n̸̵̴͇̉͗ͅḏ̸̷̷̭̀͝å̸̶̵͓̺̅ ̶̸̷͚͆͝ͅa̷̵̷̮̜͋̈r̴̵̵͇͗̉ͅḛ̶̵̷͔̎̏,̴̷̵̢̥͐͗ ̷̴̴̹́̀͜w̷̴̷̲̖̌͝ȩ̸̷̵̖͒̀r̵̸̴̘̜̀̎e̷̴̴͉͙͂̅ ̵̵̵͇̹̂̈n̶̴̶͎̝̄̌ŏ̸̷̶̢̰̚t̶̶̶̳͖̋͋ ̴̵̸̗̘̿͗ǹ̶̵̵̗̳̆ǒ̴̴̷̲̼̎t̸̷̵̡͉͊̽,̵̸̸̖̞̐̃ ̷̶̴̗̪̊͌å̵̴̶̡̨̊-̶̴̴͖̠͑̕a̴̵̸̤̤̅̆r̸̸̵̡̩̔͒e̴̴̸̝̗͑̈́-̴̵̵̱̭̄͑,̴̶̸̻͖̒̿ ̴̸̶͚̮̄͘ŵ̴̷̶̧͇͐ē̵̶̵͇͍̈?̴̷̵̢̲̽̚ ̷̴̶̬̱̃̑D̶̵̶̡̳͘̚i̷̷̴̊̓͜ͅd̶̷̴̼̺̆͘n̷̸̵͖̣̂́'̵̷̵̳͚̌͠t̵̵̸̩̳̍͝ ̵̵̵̞̤̓̚I̶̴̴̢̛̥͘ ̷̴̴̰̓̊ͅạ̴̷̷̮̏͋l̴̶̵͎̫̏̓r̶̸̴̤̘̎͝e̸̸̸͉͚̓͠a̵̶̴͖̒̊ͅd̴̸̶͍͎̐̃y̴̶̷̲͖͐̒ ̷̴̴͇͈̏̎t̴̷̸̡̫̀͘h̷̴̶̟̖̿̇ḭ̶̴̵̝͑̎n̴̵̶̲̥̆͑ḵ̵̴̷̃͘ͅ ̴̴̴̦͉͐͋ȍ̴̴̶̡̫͗f̵̶̴̘̪̉͒ ̶̶̸̣̄͜͝t̸̶̴͉͇̓͋h̵̸̷͎̤͌̊a̶̶̶̙͇͆̽ť̶̸̵͎̪́?̷̴̴̡̱̓͊ ̷̷̸͎̙̾̕Ṉ̶̵̷̟̈́̚Ỏ̵̶̵̥͓̕n̸̶̷̺̹̈̒O̶̶̸͕̖̽͒O̴̷̷̪͂̋ͅo̶̶̵͈͙͝͝ổ̵̷̸̜̣n̷̸̶̻̳͋̚o̸̵̴̢̹̊̚o̵̴̸͇̥̓̚n̵̸̶͓̜͊́o̴̴̸̥̱͂͆ó̶̵̷̘͉͝n̸̷̴̹̝̒̎ô̴̸̵̤̣͠n̷̵̷͚̜͋̋o̷̴̷̩̔̕ͅ ̷̵̶̪̱̈̂Ṉ̸̵̶̡̓̑Ȍ̴̵̵̪̣̂Ņ̶̴̷͈͂͊Ǫ̸̵̴̩̏̔O̷̴̷̟͔̾͊O̷̷̸̻̖̾̈́,̶̴̴̱͔̑͐ ̶̸̴̙̙́̀T̴̶̴͔̪͆̿h̵̴̵̼̙̔̔ỵ̷̷̷̺̇̾e̴̴̶̹̫͑͌ ̸̷̶̩̗̄̏â̴̵̵̟̻̈́l̵̶̴̪̹̀̈́r̷̵̷̺̗̈̉ȇ̵̸̴͖̟͋ ̸̷̴͖͔̈́̒d̴̸̶̝̓̈́͜e̵̷̷̙͉͋̊a̴̷̴̲̼͆̈́d̷̴̸̗̮̊͝!̵̴̴̹̭̿̑ ̴̶̷͔͔̄̽T̶̴̵̜̺͌́h̸̷̶̲̿̒ͅe̶̷̴͙̠͒͂y̵̴̵̝͌́͜ ̵̵̶̯̜͒͝m̸̷̴̢͇̽͝ṷ̵̷̵̡͌͛s̶̸̷̬͆̏͜t̴̷̷̤̓̌͜'̴̸̸̱͖́̀v̴̸̴̱̼̀̔ẻ̸̵̸̯̩͒!̷̶̸̪͖̍̈́ ̴̷̷͔͈͂́S̸̸̴̺͚͒͝ǫ̴̸̸͚̅̎m̴̵̵͕͊̾͜ẻ̶̸̸͓͖̐ ̴̸̵̹͛̇ͅį̷̴̴̜̎͑f̶̴̸̼͚̒̚ ̵̸̶̥̫̆͝n̷̴̴̜̪̔̎o̵̶̷͎͔̓͝t̷̵̷̩̲͌̔ ̷̶̶͔̬̓̈ą̶̴̵̗͛̌l̶̴̶͉͔̂̓l̶̶̴̛̮̯̔ ̸̵̵̟̼̀̄o̶̸̴͖͖̐̇f̴̶̷̪͇̅͝ ̸̶̷͈̳͋̕t̷̸̶͙̠̀̚h̴̵̷̘̻̀͠ḙ̷̶̴̅͘ͅm̴̴̴̯̥̍̔ ̶̷̴̭̩͌͋s̸̵̴̟̑͘͜h̶̴̵͚͚͌̉ó̴̵̵̖̩̍ù̷̷̶̼͔͊l̴̷̷̥͓͌͘d̶̶̷̘͒̚͜ ̸̶̷̨͖̾̽h̴̵̸͓̟͠͠a̸̶̵͚͇̐̚v̵̴̸̢̼͌̈ě̴̸̵̱͕̌ ̷̸̴̻̪̀͌ḋ̸̶̴̡̙͗i̶̸̷̗͔̾͗e̵̶̷͍̮̚͝d̴̸̸̖̦̓̓,̸̷̸̣͚͑̑ ̵̴̷̹̝̔͑i̸̴̷̘̯͌͝t̴̶̷̘̩̋̾'̶̷̴̬̩̒̚s̷̶̴̯͈̊̐ ̸̷̷̛̫̬̇b̷̵̴̜̱͑͛é̷̷̵̹̲̓ẽ̴̸̷͍̤̆n̵̷̷̲̆̀͜ ̵̸̷̞̣̋̿ẗ̵̸̷͇́͑͜w̶̷̵̨͍͒̂ő̷̵̸͈̔ͅ ̵̶̴̠̙̍̉e̷̶̵̲̟̅̔n̸̶̸͕̺̓̈́t̷̷̸̯̟̍̚ī̶̷̴̡̜͘r̵̷̷̨̠͂̚ȅ̶̷̴̦̥̑ ̸̴̷̼͖́͝ď̸̷̷̥̟͌a̵̴̷̞̙͌͂ẙ̸̸̶͙̙́s̵̷̷̨̞͌̾ ̸̷̴͕͇̒̕a̷̸̷̤͕̎̈́n̸̸̴̜̗̐̀d̵̵̵̦͖̄͝ ̷̷̶̭̳͛̿I̵̶̷͕̼̽̓ ̴̷̴̰̦̈́͗h̴̶̶̖̻̏͆á̶̵̴̛̫̟ṿ̷̴̷̛̈́͜é̷̶̸̬̬͑n̶̴̴̖̖͋̏'̸̴̷͕͛͋ͅt̸̷̷͖̟̿̕ ̶̶̸̣̯̽́s̴̵̴̟͙̽̍ẻ̶̸̶̳͘ͅẻ̴̷̵̝̩̒n̴̵̴͎̭͂̑ ̶̵̷͈͖̃̾a̸̴̵̙͙͐͆ǹ̴̴̷̺̹̑ỷ̸̸̷̨̙͌ő̵̴̸̤̟̽n̵̶̵̥̲͒͌ẻ̴̴̷͎͕͝ ̶̶̶̹̹̀͌ệ̸̷̶͔͝l̴̶̶̖̫̒̄s̷̶̷͙̟̓̎ě̶̵̵̡̩͐ ̸̵̵̖̫̋͐o̸̶̷͖͚̿̀ŗ̴̴̸͕͌͌ ̵̴̸̘͔͂̎ḣ̷̴̸͖̟͗e̴̷̵̫̺͊͒a̷̴̶͓̼̋͒r̸̷̵̫̹͑͝ď̸̴̸̡̘̌ ̴̶̵̻̭̅͝o̶̵̴̦̖͊̆f̴̷̶̞͔͛̃ ̷̶̵̪̥̏͊ą̵̷̶̼͌̅n̶̸̶̤̦͒̄ÿ̴̸̷̧̻́͛o̴̸̴̲̬͐͛n̶̶̷̖̘̈́̂e̶̷̶͇͐̐͜ ̶̷̴̮̬͊͐ȅ̴̵̸͎̜̆ḷ̵̴̶̬̅̐s̴̶̴̟̤̃̉ḙ̴̶̸̦͂́ ̶̶̵̠̦̑̕a̵̸̴͈̺͐̾p̴̴̸̡͑̄ͅp̴̷̷̢̨͗͒ë̶̸̵̩̠́͌ằ̵̴̷͖͙r̴̸̵͉̖̓̆i̸̷̶̥̹̿͆ṋ̶̵̴̨̔̕g̷̴̴̗̩͐͝ ̴̶̷̙̗́̚o̷̷̸̫̝̓͛n̸̴̶̥̣̈́̌ ̶̶̵̻͔͛̓t̵̴̴̙̻́̉h̷̴̵̼͍̓͝e̸̴̶̝̹͋̓ ̸̶̵̜̩̾́b̴̷̵̢̛̬̈́e̸̶̸̱̣͋̑ą̷̵̸̖̆́č̶̸̷̢̙̌ĥ̴̴̷͈̃ͅ ̸̵̷͍̞̏͠f̵̶̷͔̝̾̚r̶̴̴̙̺̿͂ǒ̶̵̷̬̺͗m̷̴̸͚̻̆̀ ̷̸̸͔͕͐̀a̶̶̶̳̖͐̂n̵̶̷̜̯̄́y̵̸̷̳̦̾͆o̸̷̴̬͖̊͐n̵̸̶͖̰͘͝e̶̴̵̦̯̾͋!̵̶̵̺̩̏̏ ̵̴̷̯͍͒͑W̴̸̷̮̝̋͒h̵̶̶͚̲̎͐á̵̵̴͔̩͋t̷̸̶̗̳́̾ ̷̶̵̩͉̽͝ḫ̷̷̷̛̺̌a̶̶̸̟̞͌̅v̴̶̷̹͈̄͝e̵̵̵͓̦̽̂ ̶̸̷̩̩͒̚w̵̸̸̗̠̃̌ȩ̴̵̶͇̀̋ ̸̴̴͉̺͊̃b̶̶̶̬̜͊̕ē̴̷̶̫̟̍e̴̴̸̦̜̋͗n̴̴̸̡͉͆̄ ̶̵̵̛̭̘̃d̵̵̴̜͎̅̑o̸̷̴̝͓͊̀i̴̴̵̤̦̒͌n̷̵̷͇̠̎͂g̸̵̵̭͇͗͆,̵̴̸̠͈͝͝ ̶̵̷͎̤͗̓b̷̸̵̤̭͐̆ė̴̴̵̢̡̃i̵̷̴͈̥͂͠n̴̷̶̻̱̽̈́g̶̶̴̢̾͌ͅ ̷̷̵̧̥̿͋s̷̵̶͎̺̓͂o̷̷̵̠̦̓̊ ̸̸̶̨̠͛̂h̶̴̸̤̃͜͝o̵̶̶̹͚͌̓p̶̵̶̙͇̾́e̸̴̸̯̜͆̽f̵̷̴̧͉͐̓u̷̵̷̹̖̾͆l̷̸̷͕̞͂͐!̸̸̵̭̱̆̈ ̴̸̴̪͕́̚W̵̷̸̮̠͋͝h̴̷̴̪͓̊̎y̸̸̶̱̣͌͂ ̴̶̷̢̙̌̍ǎ̷̶̵̗̺̚r̵̸̵͓̘͂͝e̸̷̵̯̩͒̚n̷̶̵͖̬̏̐'̴̴̷͙̼̕͘t̴̴̷̘̰̏̚ ̶̷̷̠̤͂͠ŵ̷̵̷͖̤̑e̶̵̸̻͍̓̚ ̶̵̶̟̯̈́̎m̸̸̷͕̯̽̀o̸̷̷̧̨̔̍ư̵̵̶̧̮͝ŗ̵̵̴̜̃̓n̴̶̴̯̫͛̈́i̸̸̸͉̟̾͐ń̸̶̸̙͇̓g̸̴̶̡̪̀͝ ̸̸̶̯̯̒̉f̵̶̴͖͙̎̇o̴̸̴̧̬͐̒r̶̶̶͔̾̑ͅ ̶̴̸̞̭̃̽ò̴̷̶̖̗̈́u̷̶̴̢̟̇͋ŗ̴̴̵̹̿͘ ̷̸̵̠͇̒̉i̵̷̷̩͎͒̋m̶̶̵͈̣̿̋p̸̶̵̫̹̈͘ẽ̴̴̵̙̖̀n̸̷̴͓͙͘͝d̸̶̸̢͍͐̚i̸̸̶̻͖͌͛n̸̶̶̺̫̎͒ǧ̵̴̵͍̟̕ ̶̶̸͚͚͊͝ḑ̷̷̸̣͊͘e̸̷̸͔͉̅͌à̷̶̴̫̜̊t̵̶̶̩͑̚ͅh̵̷̴̨̺́͘s̷̶̵̨̩̍̀,̶̶̶̫̻͆̂ ̶̴̸̱̖̌̅ẘ̶̶̷̦̠̍h̶̴̶̡̭̏̒y̵̴̶̧͍͗̅ ̴̴̵̲͙̈́̍ả̵̵̵̝̹͒r̷̷̵̺̖̅͗e̴̶̴̺̐́͜ ̸̸̸̫͇͂̉w̸̴̵̨̥̃̒ẻ̷̶̶̯͖̕ ̴̷̷̰̃̽͜n̶̸̸͔͔̅͊o̵̸̵̮̒̚ͅt̷̸̵̯͍̅̃ ̴̸̷͇̼͐̀d̶̴̴̨̻̽̒i̶̴̸̦̟̓̇ǵ̸̶̶̘̥̚g̸̶̵̲̪̋̋i̷̶̸̜̦̔͗n̶̵̷̙̪̕͠g̷̶̴̜̰̅̎ ̷̷̵̝̺̏̌o̴̴̸̧̩͘͝u̷̶̷̺͍͝͝r̸̴̵̡̜̍̕ ̷̴̸̨͖̇̀ḡ̴̷̴̡̻͌r̴̵̵̘̜̔͛ā̵̵̸͍̼̚v̵̷̵̘̥͊͊e̵̶̶͙͕̽̏ś̷̵̶̮̜̉!̶̵̸̹̜̍̐ ̶̝̽This is so unreasonable...why can't someone just help us...where is our rescue? Where are our saviors? ̧̗̟͓̃̽̒̅W̼͕͎̱͌̌̓͝ę̢̼̯̿̆̑̚r̰͕̲͕͊̊́̈́e̠̟̲̝̊́̆̈ ͇̻̖̘̑͐̒̈́t̖̫̩͆͆͊͛͜r̛͔͕͓͋̒̚ͅȁ̳̼͔̼̑̌͘p̳̙̙͔͐̀͛͝p̤̫͇͇̽̄͗͠ĕ̢̯̹͍͒̈̓d̻̘̖̭̎̽̕͝ ̭͍͖͓̅̓͘͝h͉͍̣̥͂̅̎̋ẽ͕̺͈̻̿̍͘r͔͇̰̝̀͌̐̀e͍͈̜̭͑͐̃͊,͕̳̥͕͗̈́́̋ ̥̫̘̥͆̾͑͝ą̛̰͚͇̍̃͝l̘̱̳̯̓͊͐̈́ỡ̧̹͓͒͠ͅn̦̘͓̑̓̂͜͠e̖̲̲̾̔͆͜͝,̡̪̝̻͋͐̓͘ ̳̳̱͊̄̈̎͜a͚͇͎͆̄̎͜͠n̢̞̰͇̍͛́̔ḑ͎̱̣̆͒͗͗ ̪̲͕̝̽̓̈́͝n̨͈̝̟̈́͛̐̊ờ̦̼͚̳̽̕ ͉̖͇̪̅̌͋͆o̭̙̳͐̍̌̍ͅn̡͚͉̖̈́̔͂͘ę̡̺͐̅̽͌͜ ̫͇̼̫̓̆̎́k̢̙̤̝̆͆͐̓n̬̩̝̜͊̀̂͠ö̻̯̝̹́̚̕̕w̻͎̺͌̓͊́͜s̙̩̦̪̈́͌̽̾ ̧̺̬̖̋̓͊̄a̛̜̟̬̜̓͋̈ḇ̝̙͙̔̏̊̓o͓͙̓͌̕͘ͅͅu̲̲̪͕͗̃̓̊t̗͍̮͛̑̆́͜ ̢̨̘̞̐́́̾i̼̠̩̅͗͛͘͜t̯̜̼̫̂̓̕͠!̠͙͙͕̍̔̀͝ ̡̮̹͓̓̔̅̍N̢͇̗̻̓̈́͒͝O̘̩͓̦͑̍̇͝ ̣͉͓̺̾̑͠͝Ỏ͍̯̺̖͐̚͝Ǹ̝͈̘́̓͝ͅȨ̗̭̫̀͐̀͝!̘̗̯̪̈̑̕͘ ̨̹͚̻͐̈́͂̑W̨̱͖̣̍̐̋̽è̝͓̲̟͛͂̃ṛ̝̜̠̈́̋̈́̓e̮̯̯̫̊̅̓͠ ͉͓̹̰̓̇̍̅s̟̼͙͉̔́̽͆t̫̟̩́̏͂̋͜r̡̹̝̣̈̔̏͝ȁ̬͇̟̜̂̄̋n̢̜͍̣͋̈́͗̈́d̨̮̭͇̈͂́̂e̢̳͓̙͐̎̌̍d͕͓̣͇͊̒͊̀ ̨̟̲̯̓̆̐̾h̢̝̤͍̃̾͆͘ḙ̛͚͇̼́̂͝r̹̰͇̫̃̉̚̚ë̬̞̳͍̆̌͘ ̻̫͖̺͂͑̋̕ȃ̦̼͇̞̄̒͗n̢̬̙̖̈́̿̿͆d̢͉̦̤̔̌̈̑ ͚͇̭͓̓͌́͘ẗ͉̞̹̬́̾̚͝ḧ̫̰̖͇́͛̃͘e̩͓̭͚̎̋̓͝r͈̤̣͍̀̈́͝͠e̛̝̺͖̤͛̄̚'̛̝͉͇̂̀̈ͅs̢̹̩̜̅͆̿̓ ̧̭̙̥̊̒̃͛n̪̠̭̹̆̊̐͊o͙̫͎͈̒̏͆̔t͓͎̘̺̐̒͗̈h̜̗̞̹̔͗̈́͊ḯ͔̟̝̭̎̌̈ǹ̡͙̗̙͌̌͊g̡̰̞͓̎̔͌̋ ͚̪̮̏͛̀̃ͅw̧̥̭͉̍̽͑͠ë̢̮̩́̈́̕̕ͅ ̫͉̤̭̈͌̓̕č̡̝̜͓́̑̄a͙̩͓̰͑̏͝͠n̖͓̪̪̽͂͛̅ ̘͙̜̝́͛̏̉d̤͎͓̱̃͋̽̌ò̞̬͎̒̈́͠ͅ ̤̱͇͉̒̈́̑̑à͓̖̳̥̈́̊̚ḃ̰͖͇͓̌͒͝o̥̣̣̜̐̈́͐̈́ũ͙̯̹̻͗̄̿ṫ̗͍̤̤̃̏́ ̯͇̹̫͑̿͘͝ị̧̠͈͊̆̋̿t͈̬̮̙̔̀͗̚,̞̠̟͉̆͂͐͘ ̟̭͇̤͋͑̋͝Ǹ̢͎̬̝̒̂̅Ö̪͇̥͔́̇͘͝Ţ͖̤̈̓̽͜͠H̨̡̙̺͙͚͕̘̗̻͈̥͚̝̠̗̮͓̮͕͍̝̻̗͖͓͖͚̖̜̤̥͈̭̣̟̟͖̥̖̫̜̭̝̮̘͎̰̙̹͚̣͚̜͖͚̪͆̽͛̉ͅI̧̡̢̧̡̧̲͕͓͉̭̼̠͚͍͈͍̱̪̼̥̭͈͚̰̺̝̙͍͎͚̯͕̮̘̜̥̝̬͈̪̫̜̩̟̜̱͓̠͔̗̱͚͎̔͑̐̊͜͜͜ͅN̡̡̡̢̨̨̡̡̲̱̬̣̪̱̦͙̝̫̝̱̳͇̫̼͉͓̤̹͇̣͚͉͎̦̙͖͙̳̟͈͕͈̖̣͈̰͓̞̜͙̩̰̙̝̞̗͌̀̚͜͝ͅĢ̧̨̧̨̭̯̗̝̰̠̜̻͖̜̗̗̥̜̫̭̻̱̠̠̹͍̥̰͖̹̟͕͍͈̱͕̣̯̫̫̞͕̟̭̦̥̦̜͈̳̹͇̯̏̈͋̈͜͜͜ͅ,̡̧͚̖̞̘̪̺̣͕̥̙͇̜͇̥͇̮͕̫̠͍̱͉̻͚̲̮̰̝̮̮̣̟̯͎̘̭̞̱̼̝̪̖͎̻̝̙̳̲̠͇̞̪̒̇̾́͜͜͜͜ ̨̧̨̢̡̧̢͓̜͎͍̝͍̩͉͎͇̤̠̼̗̮̙̹̩͉͔̬̼̘̻̦̻̠̜͈͖̙̘̗̬̝̖̪̣͍̭̣͖̣̣͙̹̯̝͚͒̔̾͛͜ͅb̧̨̨̢̖̮̩̹̝͓̖̣̪̖̰͓͉̜͚̰͍̝̬͍͙̣̻͈͉̤̭̘̻͖̘̠͇͎͇͙̪̬͍͚͕̣͔̳̹̱̟͍̪͍̤͈͓̅͗̔̚͜è̢̨̡͉̻̘̩̲͓̯̝̮̯̝̱̪̭̠͚͍͈͕͖̪̖͔͇̱̘͖̻̪͙͕͇͚̜̻͍̪̖̝̰͙͉͓̖̪̝̯̯͉̤̝̔̉̀ͅͅͅͅc̢̢̧̢̡̰̫͉̺̣̭̗̘̤̥͇̬̱̖͖̯̲̣͇̫̥̺̘̲̗͚̣̖̝̥̝̳̰̼͚̖̗̩̹̳̯͎̼̪̠͕͓̦̳̜̽̒̕͜͜͜͝â̢̨̢̨̜͇̼̻̟̝̰̪̲̳̟̦̺̪̦̺͇̩̬̱͕͇̟͔̫̯̞͕͇̳̭̮̖̹͎̼̦̳̟̣͈̙̪̰̙͉͍̥̥̠̥̻̓͐̕͜͜ú̡̧̡̡̹̺̜͔̻̖̫͎͓̲͉̜̹̝͇̫̙͚̻̩̲̱̥͕̬͇̳̰͓͇̼͔͓̹͉͈̖̗̳̙̟̩̦͕̳͙̻̟̥̳̤͔̥̐̚͜͝s̢̢̨̨̹̦̙̲̘̬̙̹͓̣̜̱͕̱̙͓̞͙̺͙̗̱̩͍̩͉̻̩̳͕̗̦͓̤̯̺̮̖̤͙̝̳̥̤̥̭̜̝̼͍̲̻͛͑̈́̎͜ͅę̨̢̢̨̧̬̯̟͙̮͖͎͕̖͓̯͖͉̳̯̜̬̭̺͓̣̙̜͔̫̱̺̰̜̟͓̟͈̰̯̙̼̥̭̱͍̫̥͎̦͕͓̗̉̈̃͊͜ͅͅͅ ̨̨̢̢̧̝̥̙̫̗͙͎̟͓̦̳͚̠͚͈̠͈̝͙̙͈͚͍̗̭̥͇̹̼̣̖̼̥̬̪͖̝͈͇͕̟̰̬̳̦͖̘͈̹̠͐͐͆͐͜͜ͅṈ̡̨̨̧̡̢̧̙̞̻̦̺͍̫̖͙͎̥͎͔̝̪̰̪̯̻̗̙͚̹͚̖͍̙̤̞͓̩͓̹͙̩͕̞̞̫͍͈̦̜̼̰͚̝̰̝̅̓͗̎ͅO̤͔͍̩̖̮̙̖̺̦̳͍͍͙̼̰͍̦̜͖̼̝̣̱̪͉̺͍̬̖̳̻̩̣̝̺̝͎͎͚͇̠̙͓͙̤͎̳̳̠͉̥̯͕̬̲̾̅̾͘͜͜ ̧̨̧̢̨̝̜̯̟̺̪̲̜̗̤͖̝͓̯͔̗̬̖̭͎̮͈̣̫̞͚̫͎̝̼͍̤̩͔̼̹̯̹͚͍̤͎̜̯͈̟̺̤̝̙̥̺̞̀̃͊͘Ǫ̢̧̧̨̡̧̺̻͇̭͚͙͍͉͓̘̳̟̭͎̫͉̳̝̻̲̟̠̱̟̜͉̹̙̙̜̼̘͕̝̩̻̬̙̱͕̥͍͕͕̺̜̮̼̺̥͋͑͘͜͝Ņ̢̡̧̡̧̨̢̨̧̡̥̗̺̜̤̘̘̦͙͈̳̭̪̻͉̣̟̜̹̜̗̦͇̱̳̣͔̮̻͍̲͕̣̻̮̦̫̫̯͎͙̦̟͔͈̈̔̏͜͠ͅĘ̢̢̢̢̨̢̩̬̤̘̝̰̟̜̫̮̪̜̳̥̘͓̯̩̩̞͉̦̬̦̜̙̣̺͎̣͔͉̤͚͙̭͔͎͇̖̩̻̗̘̟̝̥̪͂̄̽̄͜͜ͅ ̨̧̢̢̨̢̨̢͙̬̬̥̯̹̱̻͔͍̘̰̩̠͈͉̹̲̰̻̞̝͇̲̠̗̩̖̗̹̬̙̗̥̰̖͎̥̘̖̼̰̖̫͔̝̳͔̭̉̊̇̽͜k̡̡̧̨̢̲̤͕̞͈̗͖͎̬̝̺̠̲̱̣̖͕̤̠͙̼͓̱̞͚͍̻͙͎͓̠̳̤̠͈͔̲̘̗̬̩͕̮̞͍̮͙̦̘͗͛̾͘͜͜͜ͅṇ̢̢̧̨̛̖̠̜̟̪͎̬̞̫͔̘͔̱̟̫̹͓̻̘̳̣̥̞̟̻̱̮̣̗͎̣̯̤̭̜̤̙͎̱̦̙͓̳̭͚̹̪̫̪̳̹̥͂͜͝͝o̡̡̜̖̻̩̯̠͔̙̫̩̹̫̱̝̙͕̬̰̳̟̖̘̮̙̳̮̪̮̺̼̰̻͓͎͉̥͖̼̼̙̲̬̹̟͈̞̟̳̰̫̹͙̩̯͊̋̃͜͝ͅw̧̨̢̨̢̻̲̟̦͙̠̯̦̤̯̮̦̻̰͎͉̬̤̦̗̺̙̯̟̱̮̱̯̜͇̭̠̥͍̦̞̮̟̪͈̪̯͈͍̞͈̜̯̟͙̆̾̿̕͜͜ͅs̢̧̡̧̡̡̨͎͔̟̦͉͇͙͎͍̟̟͖̱̫̮̹̼̲̞̣̺̝̝̰̬̼͎͉̺̣̤̰̘͈̟͍͉̤͍͔̲̯̘̲̲̳̘̮̥̙̟͑̆̓͠ ̢̨̧̨̨̡̨̢̳͇̙̰̼̥̯̩̮̦͎̯̦̭̪̰̙͔̳͈̯̹̥̻̼͉̯̬͚̖̭͔̪͎̘̭̪̪̖̩̙͓̲̬̺̼̦̭͙͙̄͌̆̄w̡̨̢̡̯̤̭͚̻̫̹̗̯͓̼͍̗̹̯͓̱̰̜̥̭̝͍͈̮̱̖͇̞̻̙̟͎̳̹͔̲͖̯̦̪̟̰̘̗̤̞͖͔̥̝͔̉̔̓͜͝ͅë̗̺̬̰̞̯̭̞̬̗̱̯͚͙͙̗̳͍̤̙̗̟̗̩̻̰̘̳̜̠̻̙̱͚̪̙̬̫̤̮̪̪̗̭̣̦̘̱͉̩͇͖͔͚̻́̉͂͜͝ͅͅr̨̢̧̧̡̙̟̺̤̼̺͈̟̘̦̘̞̱̟̮̪̩̝̫͎̼͕̙͙̰̬̬͔̹̻̥̦͍͉̫̥̖̞̭͕̥̗̯̤͉̜̦̬̖͚͌͑͂̚͜ͅͅe̢̡̢̢̡̢̧̼̥̝̣̰͉͚̗͇̭̬̹̬̝̳̯̬̳̰̗̭̠͕̺̯͕͎̮̦̬̫̟̤̫̬̥̝͕̞̱͎̹͔̦̠̤̜̅͌͊̎͜͜͜ͅ ̨̡̡̢̡̙̝̩͙̩͖͕͓̦̯̘̰̠̪̞̮͖̫̤̖̻͇̦̥̯͓̙̼̺̰̬̞̖̼̝̻̠̝͇̤̮̙̳̭͖͉̰͎̦̹͐̃̈́͛͜͜ͅȩ̡̢̡̡̢̡͚̹͉͉̺͖̺̯͈̹̝̼̤̥̘̞͚̖͙̪̱͇̩͉̖̣͔͉̞̪̰̤̱̤̱̯̮̤̠̤̭̱̺̟̳̱̩̱̬̈́̈́̀̈́ͅͅv̧̡̢̨̨̧͍̥̣̤̟͉̩̥̳͇̝̟̤̳͔̯̮̹̙̭̠̜̘̫͉̰̹̦̲͚̹̺͕͎͉̱̳̫̼̗͈̻̮̝͉̯͚̹̹̉̎͜͜͝͝ͅe̡̡̧̧̢̨̠̲͓̖̣̼̗̥̳͓̮̝̥̣̭̘͚͇͚̙͙̯̭̦̪͖̟͕̹̟͔̱͈̰͕̼̙̲̱͉̤̳̞͔̤̗͍͂͊̑̓͜͜͜͜ͅn̢̧̡̰̮̪͇̬̩̩̟̹̳̳̩͈̪̲̼͔̖̠̥͖̯̱̘̥̞̠̗̝̰̬̦̰̹̣̮͉̺͉̬̺͇̣̮̬̤̮̠̻͎̪͙̝͒̓́̀͜͜ ̨̨̡̡̨̛̼̤̲̯̟̮̮̱̮͇̺̹͍̠͚̣̜̙͈̙̮̺͔̜̞̺͕̰̤̬͉͇̩̲̯͕̬͎̖̟̼̣͚͙̙͉̹̩̞̣̩̫̇̒́͜h̨̧̧̨̨͇̞͇̙͍͓͔̩̙̞͎̹͍̩͓̪̘̤̜̤͍̻̤̞͓͍̗̺͓̟͎̲͔̠̮̱̹̯̞͕͚͍͓̞͕̬̭̺̮͍̦̞̏̑͒̐ͅe̡̡̧̧̨̢̖̘̯̦̙̟̥̪̤̲̱͔̱̣̬̘̤̠̖̟̹̮͈̻̖͔̜̞̠̻͔̩͍͖̹̦͔̱̜̲͖̠͔̪̣̮̙͐̽̐͘ͅͅͅͅͅr̢̧̧͍̫̮̱̱͉͙̟̻̠̦̟͎̥̫̯̳̯̤̟͖̤̠̝̰͓͖̖̬̦̲͓͉̱̪̖̦̼̰̭͇̟͈̦̦͕͈̲̱͚͍͙̰͒̀̇̽͜ͅe̢̡̧̢̱̖̟̳̼̜̪̝̜̝̺̱̰̮̝̞͇͓̻̟̮̻͖̺̖͈̠̻̫̖͕̭̱̪͓̼̦̙̗͉̥̭͉̟̫͇͚̹̣̰̭͊͒͋͜͠ͅͅ!̢̮̬̯̰̫̬̞͚̖̥̝̪͈̤̘̻̗̱͈͓̺̝͓̜̘̝̹̬͚̖̫̞̩̱̗͙̩͓̜͚͚̰̥̪̺̝̟̠͚̫͚͕̗̺̘̀͐́̚ͅͅ ̧̩̬̟͒̽͌̓W̨̧̢̢̧̢̨̢̢̢͕̼̳̱̖̬͚̻̳͎̯͉̪̪̺̺̙̜̺͈̯̟͎̟̝̬͂̈́̆̀͜͜ͅͅĘ̢̢̳̻͙͉͕̳̳̺͖͉̺̯̝͕̮͍̯̠̞̘̦̙͕̦̺̘̟̙̯͎̺͉͓̱͕̝̓̄̕͘͜R̨̥͉̯͖̘̗͕̖̭͔̫̖̣̦̖͔̜͖͍͖͉̲͎͔̩͓̰̩̱͖̭͚̱͔̠̰̄̍͊͜͜͝ͅĘ̯̩͎̝̝̺̱̲͙̬̜̮͍̬̗̩͓̻̟͓̙̬̣̠͍͈̱̠͙̺̟̪͎̳̟̯̹̾̇̀͋ͅͅ ̡̢̨͚̜̫͕͎͎̱͚͚͎͚̩̜̤̞̙̣̣̙̠̝̘̹̫̪̣̞̝̺͍̻̫̗̩̣̍̎̊͜͝ͅA̢̧̧̩̮̣̣̳̗̪̫̤͉̬̦͉͇̰͙̖͕̺̙͎͍̪̠̮͕̜͕̪͎̯͕͆̈̚͜͜͜͜͝ͅL̨̡̡̛̞̖̪̣͇͓̤̪͍̫̻̱͖̠̞̰̞͉̱̯̫̗̲̣̲͉͚̝̮͈̘̱͓͎̒͑̀͜͜ͅL̢̨̨̯̩̩̦̯̳̱̦͍̹̰̝͍͉̞͔̥͇͖͈̙͍̼̦̫̣̰̭͓̣͍͙̗͈̭̙̓͑͒̽ͅ ̛̠̭̜̼͙̳̯̲̱̥̞̥̳͙̟͇̌̓̚͜&#

["That Kram!"]

"That Kram!" She doused her head in the sea water again for good measure.

With a sigh, she propped herself back up again, her hair gaining a peculiar gloss as the droplets ran smoothly down her hair; droplets of blood, anyways. Aivil hadn't realized the blood had spread to her hair, but she called the task of cleaning her face complete. She was right about washing her face, not everything else. Someone would have to point it out to Aivil that her hair was just a tad bit bloody, and most likely, she would go rushing for water again. Perhaps she would ask if anyone collected water instead of running off into the mysterious night. She's at least a bit reasonable sometimes, not like a certain other time she stood frozen behind someone's sorry back saying something completely uncalled for the situation.

After she walked away from the water, she saw all these debris around her, likely wreckage from the ship. She began scavenging her way through the beach, losing track of time. Eventually she stumbled upon a unopened crate; one she already knew could not open. It was firm, and after giving it just a few tests, realized that even with a crowbar she might not be able to crack it. She knew her limitations well- strength was a big one. She'd most likely need the aid of someone else to open the crate, so she tried to at least roll the crate through the sand, back to camp. Unlikely it was, however, because she was breathing hard after just a single roll. Either the crate was heavy, or Aivil's strength was even less than what she thought it was. No one's been eating properly though. She quickly gave up on the ordeal and sat atop the crate, leaning ever so slightly into the air and letting it pass by her.

"I better get headed back to the camp-
               "

But her feet were rooted to the spot. They wouldn't move. But they did stand.

As if naturally, Aivil's wistful eyes wandered far into the distance, far from the island- somewhere towards the horizon that she couldn't possibly reach. It was a heart warming feeling, staring at the yellow sky. A lucid fantasy dream wouldn't be a wrong comparison to the rather wide and spectacular view right now. The waters glistened with liveliness in the face of the sun, dancing their little dances, waltzing in exact unison. Some worries had been released when she looked at the expanse of sky.

She stood there beneath it all, Sky-dazed-

There she found herself crying.

Her unease faced strong against the bright sunset nonetheless, letting the warmth comfort her worries if only for a moment. Her tears didn't flood her face like Kram's blood had, more akin to a weak stream, a delicate one. I never stopped to think about everyone else did I? Her fingers gently caressed her flush eyes, her closed hand tugging the flaps of her shirt. Dear grandparents, she started, I'm doing just fine. I'm alive. Don't listen to any news of me being otherwise she continued, someone's going to come find us and I'll make it back, all of us, I'm sure. How are you doing? Are you taking your medication? Are you taking eating correctly, taking care of yourself, washing the dishes, living well?...

Were all going to make it back right?

Her being-
Lost purity

[Kram fishes]

Actions;
[spoiler]Kram fishes, considering that fact that he can only really move his head, his eyes, and his arm. It's the most manly thing he can do anyways.

Aivil obviously ran off to find some water (to wash a certain someone's blood), so she rushed to the beach. Now that her face was clean again, she started scavenging around.

[blockquote]Rolled 3d6+1 : 4, 3, 3 + 1, total 11[/blockquote]

RP post will come later.[/spoiler]

Survival Rolls
[spoiler]Kram's Survival Roll:
[blockquote]Rolled 2d6+4 : 5, 6 + 4, total 15[/blockquote]

Aivil's Survival Roll:
[blockquote]Rolled 2d6+4 : 5, 6 + 4, total 15[/blockquote][/spoiler]

[what's your name?]

...Bul   by...

...Lets        for       . They      help us        care      Kram...

...

...

...what's your name?



Kram awoke.

A mild headache from what he could make out to be his time asleep had just now passed.

I'm Kram- he reaffirmed.
Niawt, he said with regret.

"I couldn't save everyone, could I?"

Immediately he saw a deep green, dark brown ceiling above him, twigs, leaves, brought together in a haphazard dance resembling the aftermath of a horrible hurricane and found himself lying beneath all of it.

The last thing Kram remembered was being crushed under a ceiling and a little bit of shock overtook him when he initially looked up above. Fearing it might fall, he moved his hand in front of his face out of instinct. Kram stared up at the ceiling once more. Although abstract and poorly built, the ceiling managed to hold when he threw a nearby PokeBall at it, an empty one he figured as a familiar pang sound and red wave of light didn't come out. He was about to launch his super-secret Bulba Smash move but Bulby wasn't anywhere to be seen.

It's not concrete, he sighed, staring at the ceiling again.
Guess I won't appear manly if I hold something like twigs and branches huh-

He slowly brought his head up with some difficulty to glance at his surroundings, eyeing several wooden splinters that should've been piercing his body, but alas, weren't present. Several jacket sleeves and strings of various sorts, some of which he couldn't mistake for anything else but backpack straps, held one of his arms and both of his legs like a pseudo cast. His earlier movements to protect his beautiful face from imminent danger caused the cast on his right arm to wane and with little effort, got rid of the straps entirely.

Casually flicking his freed arm in several directions to confirm a full range of motor control, he began undoing the rest of the straps that immobilized him; things became progressively simple as he got his left arm freed.

Kram's injuries had yet to completely heal- he could understand that the moment he had successfully stood up, sharp aches of pain assaulting him from the most mischievous of places. Most of his wounds were clotted with dried blood, some of which were bandaged and still oozing out. Blood came flowing down his face as he stood, most likely an injury that reopened upon standing up.

Moving was painful, so he quickly sat himself down. Kram decided he'd only force his body to move if it was truly a necessity; he knew well the benefits of rest after all the times he trained overworking himself.

Kram was organizing his thoughts when a blur the size of a large football came charging towards him. Noticing the thing fast approaching, Kram lifted himself up, brought his hand inwards and put his right foot out into a stance. You could tell at first glance that it was a very practiced notion. Still, it looked a bit less intimidating when Kram's breaths were heavy and ragged. The blood flowed down his face faster and faster. Some of it would have to end up in his eyes if it kept flowing.

Let's get this over with quick! He flicked the blood from his forehead.
I can't protect anyone if I can't even keep myself safe!

Standing with some of his severe wounds being partially reopened was equivalent to being stabbed with a knife a couple times to say the least. He briefly closed his eyes in pain before reopening them; the blur was almost within arm's reach. The blood came back onto his forehead. Kram didn't have the time to flick it away again and had to make do with his limited sight.

The moment the blur reached for his waistline he nimbly took a step back, sweeping his foot up in an arc towards the assailant. A clear sounding kick resounded in the makeshift shelter. Kram watched as the blur left his kick, flying up through the ceiling. The ceiling now had a beach ball sized hole in it.

The contact of Kram's foot to the blur felt familiar. That blur also looked awfully familiar, but Kram couldn't grasp it.

No it couldn't be...
...Bulby? Ouch.

A small blue-green blur came crashing back down through the same hole it had gone up. A familiar Bulbasaur walked around dazed for some time but instead of falling, it ran towards Kram with a joyful glee.

"Bouubaaa!~"
"Oh I missed you! Hahaaa! Come over here!"

And as Bulby was about to come towards his hugging arms, Kram executed a backflip, legs locked together. His heels hit Bulby downward into the dirt. Bulby went topside once again behind Kram as he stood in front of the entrance facing the inside.

"Ain't that a familiar sight! Hahahaaa!~" the smiling trainer laughed loudly
"Bouu...Bouuubaa?" Bulby asked.

"It's because you let your guard down! Besides, I didn't clearly see it was you when I kicked you last time. So I apologize for that."

"BOU BA-"
Kram cut him off-

"But I won't accept letting your guard down! The temptation of seeing me after you long struggle must've been pretty hard but you should face it like a man! Hahahaaa!~" his laughter quickly caught the attention of a passerby.
"Kram?"
"GWWWEHYAAAhyyahhhhh!?" He turned towards the sudden ear-distance-voice behind him but lost balance due to the pain brought by his wounds. The mix of surprise and pain was too much for his legs as he came tumbling down.
"K-k-kraam!? A-are you okay?"

He fell a magnificent fall, tripping over Bulby who was then squished under his free falling body. Listening to the voice now that he had the chance to pay attention to it, she recognized her as the girl Kram saved earlier on the cruise. She stood in the entrance staring at the mix known as Kram and Bulby. Bulby was secretly laughing at Kram's perfect guard.

"I think I'll just stay here for a bit Ms...
Uhh..." The timid black haired girl slowly averted her gaze when she noticed Kram's rather passionate glare.
What was her name again? I could've sworn I-
Then Kram remembered she never got her name! Genius Kram strikes again!
Right, I never got her name!
As I was saying...

"Aivil Nodgnal. My n-name you asked?"

"My name's Kram!" He declared boldy-
"B-but you already introduced yourself to me on the cruise before..." Aivil twiddled around with her fingers at Kram's second introduction.

Right, whoops, taking my dreams as reality, hehe~ he recalled the moments following his awakening. He had to quickly come up with a believable response. He couldn't afford to look dumb in front of a lady, could he?
Rule of Chivalry Number Two: 'Act Smart!'

"There's no harm done knowing my name TWICE, is there? Hahahah-GAAh!-" Pain started crawling up his spine, the consequences of moving his body.

I really shouldn't be moving. Least I sounded cool. I think.

"A-anyways you should lay down! You shouldn't be s-standinf-e-exerting yourself s-so much!" her words were getting more and more jumbled.
"Please let me stay right here then Miss Nodgnal!" Flashing a quick smile, followed by a quick grunt, Kram closed his eyes and his breathing became shallow. Sleeping, he was; only, he was faking it this time, seeing how, err, hearing how Ms. Nodgnal would react. He hoped she wouldn't disappoint.

"Ahh, he slept..." she whimpered, exhaustion written on her face.
"Now I'll have to ask Bulby to help me again!" she took notice of Bulby waving it's arms in front of it's face. It occurred to Kram that he never stated Bulby's name. Kram put more effort into his hearing knowing that some lovely reasons would be revealed here. Actually he didn't, because Kram's as smart as a rock. Except for a few bits, Kram was knowledgeable about nothing else. He focused anyways; anything Kram does 'is genius!', so Kram thinks.

"You know, Bulby," she squatted down close to Kram and looked at Bulby's head peeking out from under him. Her half-closed eyes looked into Bulby with the feeling of sympathy. There wasn't anything Bulby could feel sympathetic for, so Bulby stared cautiously back at Aivil's fleeting eyes.
"You could just use your vines to carry Kram onto the proper bed behind you. It's just a blanket but it's better than having Kram lay out on the dirt ground..." Following Aivil's instructions, Bulby's face lit up, a smile like Kram's plastered across his face and started raising Kram with it's vines. After hearing the black haired girl, Aivil, speak an entire full sentence without stuttering, Kram was a little shaken, crying a little maiden cry that this wonderful single lady (probably) was uncomfortable around him. What else could Kram figure out? Anyone who couldn't speak with confidence in someone's presence had to be nervous! And of course that nervousness would be out embarrassment, awkwardness, lovesickness...
Kram was crumbling inside, each motivation he ever had in chivalry, lost.

WAIT!-

Kram had to think of something dumb.

LOVESICKNESS! Haha! Kram, you're a genius! There is hope yet to know this Aivil!

So his fantasies grew.

Kram felt weightless under Bulby's Vines for a bit before feeling the slight cushioning the blanket had to offer.

"Well that's that." Aivil patted Bulby's head, making her way to the door before the entrance soon enough, smiling lightly.
"Guess it's time I head out and help the others-"
A high pitched yelp of sorts came from the girl- yawning?

"Or not. Bulby come closer..." Her eyes closed shut for some time. When Bulby approached out of concern-

"Bou-
BAAAA!?"

Aivil decided to use Bulby as a pillow and put him under her head. She already set another blanket opposite of Kram's feet out of nowhere, right next to the door. Bulby was debating whether or not to struggle from Aivil's grasp when-

Bulby threw Aivil towards Kram with it's powerful vines.

"Wha!-"
"!"

Kram attempted dodging but was too late. He should've known better then to think Bulby wouldn't pay him back in full with his earlier kick.

The impact from Aivil's head to Kram's stomach caused him to cough blood all over a wide-eyed Aivil.

Her face to be exact.

"HII-

HIIYAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Aivil bolted out, probably running to find water or something to wipe away Kram's blood at any cost.

"Leave the bleeding victim dying, got it..." Kram groaned, rubbing his numb stomach before staring at a smiling Bulby.
"Bouuuubaaaaaa!~" Bulby teased.
Guess I'll have to keep my guard up next time.
"I concede."

...

...

Half an hour passed and no one had came to see old injured Kram.

"This is kinda lonely..." Kram petted a snoring Bulby next to his side.
"I kinda wanna do something. Gah-

Someone tell me something to do!"

(rolls for Kram's lady friend)
[spoiler][blockquote]Rolled 1d6-2 : 5 - 2, total 3[/blockquote]
[blockquote]Rolled 3d6-2 : 6, 2, 2 - 2, total 8[/blockquote]
[blockquote]Rolled 3d6-2 : 3, 3, 4 - 2, total 8[/blockquote][/spoiler]